Blowback (24 page)

“What's wrong with this picture?”
Vanessa followed Chris down the faded steps of the old red-brick building that housed MI5's centrally located Headquarters. All the way down the elevator and while they retrieved their cell phones from the security desk and Vanessa grabbed her small roll-aboard, she'd been mentally turning the encounter with Alexandra Hall and the MI5 operatives.

She pulled her slicker tight around her shoulders, chilled by the now-steady drizzle. The darkening of the late-afternoon sky and the icy wind that whipped down the narrow, deserted street made it seem even colder.

“One minute they're talking about the PM and the president, and the next minute they've got it handled, and Hall can't give us the time of day because she's going
shopping
?” She powered up her cell phone, searching automatically for messages and finding none.

“It's very British, you know,” Chris said, sounding distracted.

“What's very British, the flea?”

“The gift—and what the hell? Didn't they say there'd be an assigned car waiting at the corner by now?” No-parking signs covered the entire block.

“That's what they said.” Vanessa turned back toward the building's unassuming side entrance, but Chris didn't move.

She said, “I'll tell them we're—”

“Let's get a
bloody
taxi,” Chris said, grinning like a kid about to pick out a familiar and favorite treat. He took the steps quickly, and she followed him, moving briskly down the narrow street to the corner, where they stood beneath the shadow of one of the building's numerous security cameras.

Within seconds, he'd hailed a shiny, black London cab.

He held the door and Vanessa climbed in first, sighing at the familiar, delicious roominess.

“Head us in the direction of Charing Cross,” Chris told the cabbie, who looked as if he could be Dev Patel's twin.

“Right you are, guv,” the cabbie said, with a perfect Cockney accent. “A good night for you two to stay inside nice and cozy.”

Chris and Vanessa looked at each other, exchanging a smile.

Chris peered out at a world slick and gray as the rain settled in. “I'm guessing you don't have a hotel yet,” he said. “I know a great pub at Charing Cross.” He raised his voice to be heard above a sudden cloudburst. “We can talk more—and also figure out logistics—”

He broke off speaking while the cabbie executed an abrupt and tight U-turn and quickly cut over to the steely gray chop of the River Thames. When they were heading north, Chris touched Vanessa's arm lightly. “You did good in there. And here's what's wrong with the picture—you don't have it. Or not all of it.” He paused to watch a tugboat disappearing under Westminster Bridge.

Then he surprised Vanessa by whispering in her ear—“Alexandra Hall and MP Smythe—he's her ex but not completely ex. It's one of
those
relationships.” He leaned toward the seat divider to tell the cabbie which pub, and the cabbie retorted, “Already knew which one was the best, guv.”

Chris returned his attention to Vanessa. “You're very quiet.”

She frowned, twisting her mouth, still turning over mental stones. She looked toward the window, but she was picturing the fire in Alexandra Hall's eyes when she said,
We are as interested as you are in catching the Chechen, and ultimately Bhoot. Believe me when I say that is one of my top priorities.

“It's not adding up.” She looked intently at Chris. “It doesn't feel right.”

“So . . . this is one of your aha moments? Go on, I'm listening.”

“I've been focusing on the pattern, and that's led me to the Chechen—but there's a whole new level to the game when we factor in Bhoot's motivation.” Vanessa pulled up straight, as if she might see over something blocking her view.

“This is about retaliation for actions against his network. MP Smythe makes a logical target. He's sponsoring an antiterrorist bill. But what I keep thinking—
he's too high-profile.
The other targets have been practical—eliminating my assets—or they've been intelligence officers, a prosecutor, or someone looking to sell black-market nukes to the competition.”

Chris tipped his head. “He could be using a higher-profile target to divert attention from his travel to Iran, the facility . . .”

“Maybe.” Vanessa nodded.

“But I'll tell you one thing,” Chris said. “It's not Smythe who got the antiterrorist bill through to legislation, it's Alexandra Hall; she's the powerhouse—”

A shrill beep sounded over his words—the alert on Vanessa's cell. She had a waiting text message. She made a face. “Sorry.” She gazed down at the phone as she worked her way to the message. After a moment, she sucked in a breath. “Shit.”

“What is it?” Chris asked sharply.

She held the phone so he could see the text:
E250,000.

“From Lee in forensic accounting—nevermind, I'll tell you later,” she said quickly. “But I asked him to tag the account that holds the money transfers between Bhoot and the Chechen. A deposit just set off the alert.”

Chris's eyebrows rose above the frames of his glasses. “If that's only the first half of the payment . . .”

“Then this new target is worth five hundred thousand euros to Bhoot,” Vanessa finished.

She shook her head in frustrated excitement and alarm. “What if the target was never the MP? What if it's Alexandra Hall? They're sort of a couple; you just told me so yourself. So the Chechen could just as easily have been tracking her. You just said Hall is a powerhouse, she pushed the antiterrorist bill, and she's not leaving for Australia for another three hours—so the Chechen's still got a window.”

Chris was staring at her.

Vanessa shook her head impatiently. “She said she and Bhoot are old enemies. If I'm wrong, bad on me, I'll end up in Montevideo. If I'm right, then this is it. I'm willing to place that bet. The Chechen's window is now. And she's already on her way to the flea market—a public place where she's off her guard. The flea market has to be Portobello, they have at least half a dozen antique-map shops.”

Chris went still for a moment. Vanessa felt him deciding. He pulled out his cell phone, and then he leaned forward, sliding the small window open to tell the cabbie, “Portobello, the flea market.”

The cabbie braked hard
at the wooden barricade. “Far as I can get you, guv! Sorry, luv, can't squeeze any tighter! They block off the market—”

“Which way?” Vanessa asked, already half out the door and into the drizzling rain—at the same time Chris peeled off several ten-pound notes into the cabbie's hand. She'd already pulled her gray cap low around her face and zipped her slicker to her throat, but the cold cut through to her skin.

“Should be on your left,” the cabbie shouted, caught up in their urgency, flapping the money at the rain-spattered windshield. “Straight ahead about two blocks up!”

Bracing with both hands, Vanessa jumped the barricade, almost going down on the slick pavement. She heard Chris close on her heels. He called after her, “I'll try to reach the Station and MI5—but I'm right behind you.”

“Got it,” Vanessa called out, as she scanned the street. At least two years since she'd been here, but she recalled a colorful, international wall of makeshift booths lining both sides of the street and, behind those, old shops filled with dust-coated merchandise sold by equally dusty proprietors. Now, as the market loomed, the colors blurred through the constant drizzling rain. Where the hell were the street numbers?

Vanessa looked toward the row of shops on her left.
It would be one of those—

The main street was crowded and noisy—two drummers carrying their doumbeks out of the rain while a third musician wailed away on a saxophone. And a few booths beyond, a guitarist and a singer performed a folk song. On top of all that, canned music. And the babel of languages matched by the heavy and exotic smells coming from an equally international array of food vendors.

She stepped wide around a mother chasing two toddlers and a Scottie dog. She scanned the market and the street, evading what was right in front of her, while she strained to catch a glimpse of Alexandra Hall or the Chechen.

She pictured the latest CCTV image, jacket and hat and the way he held his face at an angle. But she registered her silent question:
What do you look like today?

“Map shop!” Chris said, startling her—and she felt his hand gripping her elbow for an instant before he let go. Then she saw the shop almost hidden behind a booth draped in brightly dyed fabric covered with African designs and its sign:
Map of the World, number 118
in print barely large enough to read.

Chris entered, leaving the door ajar. Vanessa stood outside, splitting her focus between what was happening on the street and Chris. He talked animatedly with the proprietor, a stooped elderly man.

“Yeah, Miss Alexandra was here, but she left,” the man said, and Vanessa heard his sharp, nasal complaint clearly through the open door.

“Said she wanted to look at my competition, even though I sell the best and been here the longest and she knows that.”

“Who's your competition?” Chris barked. “We need an address.”

Vanessa tensed at a sudden spurt of rapid-fire percussion—but almost instantly she identified the sound as drums, not firearms.

The old proprietor shook his head.

A tiny dog pulled its leash taut, walking its short, obese owner.

A boy kicked at bits of trash stuck to the dark, wet pavement.

Several men caught her eye because they were slender and wearing hats—but not one of them was the Chechen.

“Show us!” Chris almost shouted, stepping out of the shop. The old man stopped at the door, shrugging, pointing, “Open your eyes! She didn't say which one!”

Vanessa stared at the line of shops, squinting at their signs closely now, as if they had just sprung out of nowhere.

Rare and Vintage Maps and Charts.

Ye Old Mappe Shoppe.

Here Be Dragons.

“Damn.” Chris was beside her, trying and failing to wipe rain from his face with the wet sleeve of his overcoat. “Who knows how many there are?”

“I'm on this side,” she said, already moving. “You take that side.”

They split up, and she hurried to a shop, peering in to find it empty. When she tried the door, it was locked. As she dashed to the next shop advertising antiques, books, and maps, she caught a glimpse of Chris on the other side, heading for a shop with a great pink sign:
Antiquarian Maps.

When she reached the door to Ye Old Mappe Shoppe, she noticed movement, and she stuck her head inside. “Have you had any recent customers?”

A round woman in a housedress dashed her cigarette in the ashtray. “Come on in, darling, you're soaked—”

But Vanessa was already moving on.

A flash of dark blue caught her eye when she stepped from behind a booth. A man in a blue raincoat. Walking away and up the street.
Right height. Hat pulled low. Carrying a pack slung over one shoulder.

For a startling instant the sun appeared from behind clouds, skies drizzling and the light suddenly blinding. Vanessa blinked to adjust her eyes. But she didn't see Chris anywhere, just the blue raincoat moving farther from her, and she couldn't afford to do nothing. So she followed.

•   •   •

He waited up the street
three hundred meters from the map shop, inside which his target now shopped. Leaning with his weight on his good leg against the small counter at the food stand. The hip of his injured leg propped against the stool reserved for customers. The wound burned like hell. A sudden ray of sun oddly illuminated the bratwurst and roll on a paper plate in front of him. Coffee steaming from a paper cup. His Dragunov carefully assembled and pressing against his right side, beneath the overcoat.

A young woman passed so close he could reach out and touch her wet, dark blond hair. A shudder ran through him—
it had to be her.

But the woman put her arm out for the black man walking with her, and they laughed and kissed quickly before breaking into a run.

With his left arm, he reached for his coffee, shocked to notice a slight tremor as he sipped. The anxious fluttering in the pit of his stomach, the rock-hard knot between his eyes, the unsteadiness when the pain became almost unbearable—all of this so completely foreign, a feeling heightened by the strange, underlying sense of the inevitable.

He drank more coffee, spilling this time so the dark liquid stained the left cuff of his dark green Crombie overcoat. He dabbed with a napkin, forcing himself to take care. All the while his rifle pressed hard against him. Then, when he dropped the napkin into a trash can, he let his gaze slide to the shop—number 121—and the clear signs of movement behind windows. She'd been in there for the past seventeen minutes. So she was buying. As he set the coffee down again, he surveyed the street, the flea-market vendors and their customers—always with 121 in his peripheral vision.