The Carbon Trail (21 page)

“They took both of them. Sometime yesterday evening.”

Before Richie could speak Mitchell held out his hand, a computer card in his palm. Richie stared at it then followed Mitchell to the study where they watched the video clip. When it ended Mitchell spoke again.

“I need your help.”

Richie nodded, knowing that it might be his help alone that Mitchell got. He corrected his earlier thought. He hadn’t blown his assignment. Their job was to know where Jeff Mitchell was at all times and they’d succeeded in that. Dane had watched Mitchell leave Scrabo and head in the direction of the farm. The satellites had followed him until he came home, where Richie was always waiting.

The agency would say that what happened to Karen and Emmie wasn’t their concern, unless it affected Mitchell selling his work. They were collateral damage. Magee would echo that, accusing Richie of getting too involved. Magee would be right but it was too late. Richie already gave a shit about Karen and Emmie Mitchell and there was no way back from that. After a moment’s thought Richie spoke.

“We need to plan this.”

Mitchell smiled and Richie knew that he already had.

“First thing. What’s your name? I can’t call you ‘agent’”

Richie thought about giving a false name and then shrugged. It rarely worked in the movies and it wouldn’t work now.

“Agent Richie Cartagena.”

Mitchell nodded, feeling like he’d met Richie before; another mystery to add to his list. “You already know my name and my birth weight too I guess, so let’s get past the game-playing. I’m going to give your agency everything that it wants, but I need some things first.”

“What?”

“I want Karen and Emmie back safe and in witness protection, then I’ll talk to whoever you want me to.”

“And take us to your accomplices.”

Mitchell nodded; that had been his plan since he’d read the papers from the café, but he’d lied about one thing. He wouldn’t be giving the agency everything. He hadn’t read the Archaeus PDF yet; he was deliberately putting it off. But if he’d guessed correctly about what was in it, no-one could be trusted with that information. Not even the good old U.S. of A.

Richie thought hard for a minute. There was no way the agency would sanction him helping find Mitchell’s family. This had to be underground. But if he brought them Mitchell’s research, witness protection should be easy to arrange and Magee would be kissing his ass for months. Richie shuddered mentally at the image but not at the promotion it would bring, then he made a half-hearted offer that he hoped Mitchell would refuse.

“It would be better to ask for the agency’s help with finding them.”

Mitchell shook his head vehemently. “Once they’d got my research they wouldn’t care about the casualties.” He looked at Richie and smiled, recognising his ploy. “But you already knew that. You just wanted to hear me say so.”

Richie nodded. “I’m going off-radar on this and I need to be able to say that you insisted. OK, you’ve got me. Now tell me who has them.”

Mitchell pulled out a piece of paper. It had two names at the top. Elza Silin and Ilya Tabakov.

“Who are they?”

Mitchell explained about his memory loss and Richie knew that he wasn’t lying, or setting up a defence. It was a fact. After all, he had a brain tumour.

“The first thing I remember is being in the shower Thursday morning two weeks ago; the fourth of the month. Nothing before then.”

Mitchell left out the detail about the blood, knowing that it would set Richie running in a direction he didn’t want him to go. He hesitated, tossing up whether to tell Richie the thing he could barely bring himself to think about, and then he blurted it out. “I have a brain tumour. It must be that.”

Richie feigned surprise, pretending that the information was new to him. He made a sympathetic noise, but his mind was racing. The Thursday before last; the day after Greg Chapman had disappeared.

“You remember nothing before that Thursday? Not about your childhood? College? Getting married?”

Mitchell shook his head. “It’s made things tolerable in a way. If I can’t remember doing things then I can’t be blamed for siding with these pigs. I can’t really be blamed anyway…”

Mitchell’s voice tailed off and Richie was sure that he saw a tear forming in his eye. Why would Mitchell get tearful about things now, unless he felt guilty? No, that would be too big a shift for the bastard he’d been tailing for months. Mitchell stared at him for a moment and then spoke again.

“I was a sleeper.”

A sleeper. The word conjured up the image of a normal life changed with one phone call. Average Joes activated into Manchurian Candidates by whatever language their employers spoke. Richie gasped, genuinely shocked; it hadn’t been in their briefing on Mitchell. Why not? He asked and answered the question at the same time; because the agency couldn’t possibly have known.

“How did you find out?”

Mitchell stared at the ground with a look that resembled shame. “They were discussing it. The day I went on the 295.” He glanced up. “I’m sorry about your agent. There was nothing that I could do.”

Richie scanned his face for sarcasm but there was none. Mitchell’s regret about Brad Whitman was real. How could he change allegiance mid-life? Mitchell read his mind.

“The man they described as a sleeper doesn’t feel like me. I have no memory of him at all.” He tapped his head. “Maybe it’s this tumour, or maybe if we don’t remember who we are then we can become someone else. The person that we’re supposed to be.”

It made sense, and it could explain why Mitchell had become ‘Family Man’ in the past few weeks. So which one was the real Jeff Mitchell? The one he’d been bred to be, or the one he’d become when he was freed from the training of his past? It was too philosophical a question for Richie. He realised that Mitchell was still talking.

“I never knew my real parents. They chose me from an IQ test, took me from my family and brought me to the States when I was ten. I was bred to work for them.”

Poor bastard. Richie almost felt sorry for him. Jeff Mitchell had been cursed by his intellect from the day he could think.

“Who are they? Russians?”

Mitchell nodded. “Some of them. You know about the café?”

“Yes. You killed one of our men there.”

Richie knew Mitchell hadn’t killed Brunet but it was a good test.

Mitchell gawped at him, horrified. “I didn’t kill anyone. I knew nothing about it until they told me. I only ever went to see the old lady.”

As Mitchell described Daria, Richie nodded. The old lady; Daria Kaverin. Old-school KGB and one hundred percent lethal. She’d been a Russian agent for years, one of their best, but the CIA had lost track of her after Perestroika. How the hell had she got to New York?

“Who else do you know about?”

Mitchell rubbed his face tiredly and Richie could see the stress starting to tell. Mitchell pointed to the piece of paper.

“The two names here. Ilya Tabakov.” Mitchell paused and looked sad. “Apparently he brought me up. I don’t remember it of course, but I felt something for him when he told me. Affection of some kind. And for Daria.”

Richie tapped the paper.

“And this Elza Silin? Who is she?”

Mitchell filled Richie in on what he knew about Elza. He finished with an opinion. “She’s poison and she wants me. I…I think she’s in love with me. I can’t believe Ilya would hurt Karen and Emmie, but her…”

“Why now?”

Mitchell gazed at Richie, uncomprehending.

“Why would they kidnap your family now? You’re working for them already so what’s to be gained?”

Mitchell said nothing for a moment and Richie watched realisation dawn on him.

“They must have guessed what I was thinking! They must have realised that I was having second thoughts about giving them the research.”

“When would they have known?”

“When I met the Iranians. They were at the farm facility the day your agent died in the crash, that’s when I first remember meeting Ilya. I wasn’t certain about the Russians, although I had a suspicion that they were involved after meeting Daria and Elza. But the Iranians were a complete surprise. They were there that day.”

Richie struggled to hide his shock. Iranians. Fuck. His guess had been right. That made it a whole new ball-game.

“Who was leading? The Russians or the Arabs?”

“The Iranians, definitely. They were telling Ilya how it was going to be. Once they had my work they would get us out of the country.”

“Us?”

“Karen, Emmie and me.”

Something dawned on Richie. “Did this woman Elza hear?”

“What? What’s that got to do with anything?”

God, Jeff Mitchell knew even less about women than he did. Richie asked again, more insistently. “Did she hear them say that you were taking your wife and child with you?”

Mitchell shook his head vehemently.

“No, she couldn’t have. She was outside the room. The Iranian dismissed her like a servant. You know, the ‘not for women’s ears’ crap.”

Elza had overheard them somehow, Richie was sure of it. And it had given her the motive to harm Karen.

“This Elza has taken your wife and daughter. I’d stake my life on it. She overheard them saying you were taking your family with you when you left and she wants rid of them.”

Mitchell’s eyes widened. “No! Elza could never take a decision like that alone. They would kill her. She was there to watch me, that’s all.”

Richie wanted to shake him. “She’s a woman in love, for God’s sake! She’s taken them. I’d lay my life on it. The only question is, was it sanctioned higher up?”

“Ilya?”

Richie nodded. It was essential to find out. If Ilya Tabakov had OK-ed the kidnapping, then Karen and Emmie stood a chance of still being alive. He wouldn’t want them dead, just Mitchell pulled into line until they were ready to leave. What better way to motivate him than to threaten the people he loved until he cooperated.

“Let’s hope he ordered it.”

Richie really meant it. Because if Elza Silin was acting alone then Jeff Mitchell’s family was already dead.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Thursday. 10 a.m.

The old-fashioned café sat in a side-street in Greenwich Village, across from an antique bookshop and a new gallery showing Venezuelan art. People milled around the gallery’s entrance, staring at signs that announced its opening date. Tom Evans stood amongst them, dressed down in the shabby-chic style that cost a fortune and made the rich feel ‘real’. He fitted right in.

Evans cast a quick glance to both sides, scanning the crowd for an undercover goon. He would spot them immediately if they appeared. He should do, he’d been one often enough. There was no-one in sight so he leaned back against the gallery wall, his eyes roaming up and down the street. He was searching for one man in particular. A minute later Evans found him, seated in the café, just where they’d agreed. Dressed in a dark suit on a hot autumn day, Magee might as well have stamped ‘agency’ on his face.

Magee looked straight at Tom Evans, beckoning him across the street and ordering them both coffees before he arrived. He scrutinised Evans’ outfit with a look of distaste; his fashion sense had degraded with his morals, and no faux-military jacket could hide the gun strapped under his arm.

Evans turned a wicker chair around so that his back was to the wall, and waited for the black filter coffee that he knew was on its way. When the waiter left he stared hard at Magee. Magee stared back for a minute then finally he spoke.

“You look like crap, Tom.”

Evans gave a small smile. It was as close to affection as Magee ever got. He considered the older man carefully then grinned. “Well, you look just adorable.”

Magee’s face cracked into a smile, recognising an old ‘in’ joke. He closed the smile down quickly but not before Evans had read the nostalgia on his face.

“What do you want, Tom? I’m taking a risk meeting you and it will only happen once.”

“Not as big a risk as I am. And you can park the attitude until you hear what I’ve got to say.”

Evans paused and sipped his coffee again, knowing that as soon as he said his next words there was no turning back. He kissed goodbye to his expensive lifestyle and then spoke.

“I can give you the North Koreans.”

Magee leaned forward urgently and Evans could hear the wheeze building up in his chest.

“You’re a bastard, Tom! And a lying one at that. I stick my neck out for you and you come to me with this shit! The North Koreans aren’t active in New York.”

Magee sat back abruptly and grabbed at his inhaler. Evans gave him a moment and then shook his head.

“You don’t know everything, Magee. The Koreans
are
here and they want whatever Jeff Mitchell’s working on. Or are you going to tell me that you don’t know about him as well?”

Magee pulled the inhaler from his mouth.

“We know that you’ve been watching Mitchell for Neil Scrabo. You were spotted in Florida.”

“Good. I was being as obvious as I knew how. Even that dickhead Brookman couldn’t have missed me.”

Magee’s eyebrows shot up and then he smiled wryly. He should have known. He’d trained Tom Evans far too well for him to be spotted unless he wanted to be.

“You know Neil Scrabo wants Mitchell’s research, so you must know that he intends to sell it on.”

It wasn’t a question. Magee nodded.

“So? You’re telling me that the North Koreans are buying and we just have to wait until Scrabo makes his move and lift him? We could have done that by ourselves.” Magee’s tone became sarcastic. “We do have some skills.”

“Except that you didn’t even know the Koreans were in New York.” Evans paused and stared at his old boss. “What did I say?”

“What?”

Evans slowed his voice as if he was talking to a child. “What. Did. I. Say?”

Magee’s face contorted in anger. Evans ignored him and carried on.

“I said that I would give you the North Koreans, not that I’d give you Neil Scrabo. Even I’d give you credit for being able to catch
him
by yourself.”

Magee stared at his old protégé for a moment, his mind racing. Evans had been the best agent he’d ever trained. If anyone could trap the Koreans, he could. Magee took the bait.

“How?”

“You let me worry about that. Just have your men ready to move when I call.”

Magee’s sarcasm returned. “And you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose?”

Evans laughed so loudly that a man at a nearby table turned to look. He smiled then turned away again. New York was no place to stare.

“That’s right; the goodness of my heart. That and a presidential pardon. Oh, and some money to start again. I’m tired of running.”

“Why would I do that when I could have you arrested right now and beat the information out of you?”

Evans smiled and patted his old friend’s arm.

“A, because you like me and working together will be just like old times. B, because you know I can resist the agency’s torture long enough to let the sale to the Koreans go down, and C, because Neil Scrabo trusts me enough to let me close. Face it, Magee. You can’t do this without me.”

***

A stream of freezing cold water hit the ground, splashing Karen Mitchell’s face and shocking her awake. She glanced around for its source and her search was halted by the sight of a stiletto heel an inch from her daughter’s small hand. Karen pulled Emmie closer, marvelling how she’d managed to wriggle free of her embrace in her sleep. She listened to her child’s slow breathing, worrying when she barely stirred, just turned her head slightly and then settled back to her feverish dream. She had to get Emmie to a doctor before she got really sick.

Elza tipped-up the jug she was holding and poured out more water, this time directly onto Karen’s face, blinding her for seconds as it splashed into her eyes. Karen shook her head angrily, dispersing the cold droplets, and hissed at their captor, trying to clamber to her feet. She failed to notice the rope tied around her knees and fell backwards onto the floor, all movement limited by her tightly bound legs. At least her hands were free now, a concession earned by hours of begging. Karen drew in her breath and screamed with all her might, repeating the question that she’d been asking for almost a day.

“What do you want with us? We know nothing.”

Then she added a phrase that she thought might appeal to the woman’s vanity. “We’re not important. No-one will pay to ransom us, if that’s what you want.”

Karen was wrong, it appealed to something much more base. Elza smiled down at her, watching as Karen flailed on her back like a beached fish. Karen Mitchell had just sealed her and her daughter’s fates; no-one would pay to ransom them so they would have to die.

Elza gazed at her own reflection in the window, admiring her perfectly quaffed elegance and comparing it favourably to the woman’s on the floor. She was far more beautiful. The knowledge made her angry instead of pleased. If it wasn’t looks that had made Mitchell choose his wife that meant it was something she couldn’t see. Something that made him love his wife but just fuck her. Elza stared at Karen Mitchell for a moment, searching for the something that made her unique then she flicked her eyes towards her child.

Emmie murmured in her sleep and Elza stared curiously at her small body. She couldn’t understand Mitchell’s love for this infant. She had no maternal feelings; in fact she had no feelings for anyone but herself. Karen saw her look and scrambled towards Emmie, throwing herself across her. Elza stared down at them like they were specimens in a zoo, her cold analysis replacing any human concern.

Finally she shrugged. If the woman cared for the child, what did it matter to her? It was only Mitchell’s love that she was jealous of. Ilya would use Mitchell’s feelings for his family to make him finish his work, promising their return, then they would be killed and Mitchell would turn to her. It was logical, but it wasn’t human. Elza Silin had just made a huge mistake.

***

Neil Scrabo poured himself a whisky and leaned back in his chair, pressing his intercom impatiently. Where was Tom? He’d disappeared two hours earlier on some excuse about going home to change. Such a fuss about a small coffee stain. Well, OK then, perhaps not small. It
had
covered the front of his shirt.

He made a note to insist that Tom kept a change of clothes at the office and then turned back to his drink. Macallan1926; the most expensive whisky in the world. Scrabo sipped slowly at the golden liquid, savouring its fire as it slipped down his throat. He imported six bottles of it each year. When the deal with the North Koreans came off he would order it by the case.

Scrabo’s thoughts flew to Jeff Mitchell. How far had Mitchell taken his research? And how much further could he progress it given time? It was a moot point. The North Koreans would see to all that, they had their methods of persuasion. All he had to do was deliver Mitchell into their hands. He’d been shocked when they’d first told him they wanted Mitchell, not just his work, but it made sense. Who knew what Mitchell might discover in the future? Why just take the water when you could have the well?

The North Koreans wanted Mitchell soon. He’d planned to give him more time to develop his work, but as soon as he’d mentioned it the Korean had shaken his head.

“Dr Mitchell will come now, with what he has. We will encourage him to take his work forward. His surveillance is becoming risky.”

‘Encourage him’, now there was a euphemism if ever he’d heard one. They were right about one thing though, tailing Mitchell
was
getting dangerous. They couldn’t be the only ones interested in his work; God only knew who else was out there making plans. They had to grab Mitchell soon before anyone else did.

Scrabo shrugged and took another sip of his drink. Jeff Mitchell wouldn’t be his problem soon. He’d be out of his employ and out of the USA; they were only waiting for the word. Meanwhile Tom would watch him closely, he was sure of that. Dr Mitchell could make them both very rich.