Shadow Maker (18 page)

London, United Kingdom

New Scotland Yard

T
he Brits were disappointingly unimaginative with their interrogation room. A folding table surrounded by sickly yellow walls—one with a large two-way mirror—and an obvious microphone suspended from the ceiling. Nick had hoped for more from Scotland Yard. He had ordered Scott to mute the earpiece signals to avoid any chance of the Brits detecting them. Now that he saw the unsophisticated facilities, he realized that measure probably wasn't necessary. A uniformed bobby led him around the table, sat him down on a stool, and then took up a position at his shoulder, silently staring at the door.

“So, what are you in for?” asked Nick, glancing up.

The bobby said nothing. He kept his eyes level.

“You used to work the gate at Buckingham Palace, right? I almost didn't recognize you without the fuzzy hat.”

Still nothing.

“Were you born without a personality, or did you have it surgically removed when you joined the force?”

The bobby finally reacted, looking down at Nick and pursing his lips. Then his eyes returned to the door.

While Nick was searching for some other way to harass the uniform, his interrogator entered the room, the same plainclothes superbobby from the square. He carried a file packed with papers.

“You clubbed me over the head and then drugged me,” said Nick. “Do you know how dangerous that was?”

The plainclothesman shut the door. “You stole my service weapon and fired it in a public square. Do you know how dangerous
that
was?”

Nick's eyes narrowed. “You might want to start collecting job ads, Constable.”

“It's Detective Sergeant, actually. Detective Sergeant Thomas Mercer, SO15, and you are?”

“Wasting time, here. Release me so I can find the people responsible for Paternoster Square.”

Mercer shook his head. “No, mate, you got your lines all wrong. This is the part where you say ‘Nick Stafford, Interpol,' and then I say ‘No, you're not,' and then you say ‘How do you know?' and then I slap this down in front of you.” The detective pulled a thin stack of papers from his folder and tossed them onto the table.

Nick recognized his phony Interpol file. Large block letters printed across the top said
SUSPENDED
. He had nothing to say to that. He tried to redirect, throw the detective a bone. “Why don't you go look into a financial firm called Kingdom Ventures Incorporated?” He needed this guy to see him as an ally.

Mercer gave him an unexpected nod. “That is a very good idea. In fact, we already have.” He pulled another packet from his file and slapped it down on the table.

Nick had expected the Interpol file, but this one hit him like a punch in the gut. The top page was the CEO profile for KVI. Nick had seen the file before—Molly sent it to him on his way to the square—but Molly's file had not come with a photo. Mercer's did. Nick stared down at his own face beneath the heading
MOHAMMED AJAM.
It was the same picture that CJ found on the suicide bomber, and it must have been added to the digital record after the Second Sign strike, a clear setup.

Nick looked from the file back up to the grinning detective. “Don't be an idiot. Do I look like a Mohammed?”

“Mohammed,” said Mercer, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, “a common name taken by converts to Islam. The spelling is changed out of respect for the prophet.” He tapped the file with his index finger. “Ajam—meaning foreigner—also commonly taken by converts, particularly white guys who join fundamentalist organizations.”

This was going in exactly the opposite direction that Nick had anticipated. He switched to a different vein of evidence. “What about Dr. Maharani? He's the scientist they're using to build the weapon.”

“Dr. Nashak Maharani?”

Nick nodded. “You met his daughter. She told you he was kidnapped.”

“Oh yes, I talked to the Indian bird. She was all worked up. Then I called old dad's mobile and guess what? He picked right up. He told me he didn't want to see her. I gave her the phone, and he told her the same thing. Big alligator tears. Very tragic.” He shrugged. “Not my problem.”

Nick stared down at the table, searching his mind for a way forward. Mercer was no ally. Kattan had covered his bases. Finally, he looked up at the detective again. “I'll tell you what. You've got me. I'll give you everything, but I want to write it with my own hand so it can't be distorted. Get me a pen and paper.”

The detective straightened. “You're offering me a signed confession? All of a sudden it's that easy?”

“You have enough to bury me. Consider it a professional courtesy.”

“A professional courtesy from a fake Interpol agent. That's rich.” The Brit hesitated for a few seconds, studying Nick's expression. Then he reached back and beckoned to someone behind the two-way mirror. “Okay, mate. I'll bite.”

A moment later, another uniform appeared and placed a confession form and a pen on the table. Nick did not move. He stared up at the detective and coughed pointedly.

“Oh, right.” The detective nodded to the bobby behind Nick, indicating he should cut the flex-cuffs. As the man bent down, Mercer held out a warning hand. “Oi, Bob. Mind your gun.”

Nick did not fight. Once his hands were free, he took a few moments to twirl his fists and flex his blue fingers. When their color returned he removed the cap from the pen and started writing. He filled out all the personal information blocks with his Nick Stafford cover data and then stopped to stretch and twirl his wrists again. This time, when he continued writing, his left hand went to his lap. He wrote a few lines of text, replaced the pen cap, and pushed the pen and paper across the table.

Mercer glared down at the form for a few seconds and then read the lines out loud with utter disdain. “‘I am not a terrorist. I did not plant those bombs. I did not attack the London Stock Exchange.'” He frowned at the bobby. “Cuff him up and get him out of here. Let's see how funny he is after a few more hours in the tank.”

—

The flex-cuffs were not as tight as before, partly because Nick was conscious when they were put on this time, able to flare his wrists a little, and partly because it was the uniform who cuffed him instead of a vengeful Mercer.

As the escorting bobby marched him to the elevators, Nick carefully oriented a metal shiv and pressed it into one of the two locks on the plastic cuffs. His simplistic confession in the interrogation room had nothing to do with making a statement of innocence and everything to do with removing the clip from the pen cap he held in his lap. He could have written
War and Peace
, and would have, if it had taken that long to work the little metal stick free.

Once Nick got the shiv between the teeth and the catches inside the lock, one cuff would slide right out. Unfortunately, the clip was too wide. He had to wiggle it back and forth to grind through the plastic. If he couldn't make it work before the bobby got him back to his cell, there would be no point. He needed to stall.

When the bell rang and the elevator door opened, Nick suddenly squatted down and then thrust up and back with his shoulder, hitting the bobby in the chest and knocking him to the floor. By the time the constable regained his feet, the doors had closed and the elevator had moved on.

The bobby gave a frustrated huff. He punched the button again and then turned to face Nick, shaking a Taser at him. “Listen, mate. I like you. That Mercer is a total git, and you get under his skin nicely, but don't think for a second that I won't use this.” The bell rang and the doors opened a second time. The bobby roughly pushed Nick inside. “Now, let's you and me go nice and quiet the rest of the way, shall we?”

The stall tactic worked. Four floors later, as the elevator doors opened onto the cell level, Nick's shiv slid home. His right cuff went loose.

The constable never saw it coming. As they passed the restrooms, Nick shot an elbow up under the man's chin, snapping his head back and throwing him off balance. Then he stepped behind and wrapped an arm around his neck for a rear choke. The poor man let out a long, pitiful rasp as Nick dragged him through the men's room door. Then he went limp.

Checking over his shoulder, Nick saw an open janitor's closet at the back of the restroom, with a utility basin and faucet. “You're in luck Constable . . . Gale,” he said, reading the bobby's name tag. “I don't have to give you a concussion.”

After stripping off Constable Gale's jacket and gear, Nick sat him in the basin and secured his ankles and wrists to the faucet with flex-cuffs. Then he glanced down at the constable's worn loafers and grimaced. Next came the unpleasant part.

The smell was pungent, a little cheesy. Nick scrunched his nose as he pulled off the bobby's sock. “There are powders and sprays for this sort of thing,” he said, admonishing the unconscious policeman. “You should try them.” Then he stuffed the sock into Gale's mouth until only the double-stitched toe remained.

Nick was cinching down a belt to keep the sock in place when Gale finally woke up. He let out a low moan and bobbled his head. Then his eyes zeroed in on Nick and flared wide. He drew in a breath to shout out and started to choke.

“Settle down! Breathe through your nose,” Nick ordered, grabbing the man by the lapels and giving him a shake. “Do it, or you're going to suck down that sock and die.”

The constable started breathing again. Fear gave way to anger. He struggled, but he could hardly move with all his limbs secured to the pipe. Nick lightly smacked him on the cheek. “Hey! Quit it! Pay attention. Number one: I'm sorry about the sock. It couldn't be helped.” He paused and checked the light at the base of the bathroom door before continuing. No signs of movement outside. That wouldn't last forever. “Number two: you
have
to keep quiet. If you try to scream, you'll work that sock deeper until it blocks your nasal airway. Do that and you'll die.”

The bobby stopped struggling and gave Nick an accusatory glare. Nick winced. “I know, you don't deserve this,” he said as he gathered up Gale's gear. “I promise I'll make it up to you someday.” Then he backed out of the closet and closed the door.

N
ick came out of the restroom wearing Constable Gale's black coat and his nylon utility belt with all its gear. As he placed a
CLOSED FOR CLEANING
sign outside the door, he spied the bobby's checkered wheel hat, still lying where it had fallen during the struggle. He dusted it off, seated it on his head, and reactivated his comm piece. “Nightmare Four, I'm loose in the building. Where's Two?”

If the engineer was surprised to hear Nick on comms, he didn't show it. “Stand by, let me call up his tracker.”

Nick suddenly slowed his pace. Another uniform had come around the corner from the cell block. Both nodded curtly as they passed each other. Then, two steps later, both stopped cold.

“Nightmare Four, I found him.” Nick reversed course and looked up at Drake's usual grin, shadowed beneath a checkered wheel hat that matched his own. The name on the police coat read
MCCORMICK
. “Pen clip?” he asked the big operative, starting back toward the elevators.

Drake fell in step beside him. “You'd think Scotland Yard would know that trick by now. Where'd you stash your guard?”

“Janitor's closet in the men's room. You?”

“In my cell, against the front wall in the camera's blind spot. Someone is going to find these guys. We need to get out of here.”

Nick stopped at the elevators and pressed the down button, instead of up for the street level. “Not yet. There's one more stop I want to make.”

—

According to Scott, the New Scotland Yard evidence lockup was on the third sublevel, two floors down from the holding cells. “The design looks like a pass-through system. That means nothing but an examining table and a wall of two-way lockers with a clerk behind bulletproof glass. It's totally secure. The clerk puts the evidence in the locker and closes and locks the door on his side and then unlocks the door on your side so you can take it to the examining table.”

Nick shook his head. “That kind of setup will have a digital ID sign-out system too, and we don't look anything like Constables McCormick and Gale. Can you hack their ID files?”

“Negative. Scotland Yard's security system is completely internal, unhackable from off-site.”

“Maybe we should cut our losses, boss,” said Drake as the elevator jerked to a stop.

The doors opened and Nick stepped out into an empty hall. “No. I want my stuff back.”

Nick's key fob got them into the evidence receiving room. It was exactly as Scott predicted, with one small difference: the clerk behind bulletproof glass was a she, not a he. She was a brunette, midthirties, slightly plump but not fat by any stretch—and she was reading a romance novel.

“Things are looking up,” whispered Drake.

Seconds later, the big operative was leaning on the short counter below the window, wearing his most charming smile. The clerk never saw it. Her eyes went straight from the book to the computer as she clicked it to life. “Depositing or checking out?”

Drake's charming smile faded. “Uh . . . checking out,” he said, his accent a deflated Sean Connery.

Nick kept his face out of view behind Drake's broad shoulders. He gauged the distance to the exit.

The clerk pecked at her keyboard for a few seconds and then, with her eyes still focused on the monitor, gestured to a gray interrogator pad on the counter. “Identification, please.”

If Drake scanned his key fob, a picture of the real Constable McCormick would come up on her screen. Nick took a step toward the door, but Drake grabbed his sleeve and held him fast. He winked.

Instead of swiping the fob across the pad, Drake unhooked it from his jacket, fumbled it, and dropped it into the receipt slot at the base of the window. “What a klutz,” he said. “I'm terribly sorry.” His Sean Connery showed renewed confidence.

When the clerk pushed the device back through, her fingers grazed his. She suddenly looked up and blinked. “Oh! That's . . . quite all right.”

The charming smile returned full force and Drake kept her mesmerized while he smoothly ran his fob across the pad, motioning behind his back for Nick to quickly follow. Before the brunette could tear herself from his gaze, the ID photo from Nick's stolen fob had replaced Drake's. Nick turned and walked to the evidence table, sitting down with his back to the girl. Between his cap and the collar of his jacket, only the nape of his neck was visible.

The clerk checked her screen again. “What's up with Constable Gale?” she whispered.

“Oh, he's all right. He's self-conscious about his complexion.” Drake circled a finger in front of his face. “Sudden hormonal imbalance. Very disturbing.”

While Nick played the part of Constable Gale's back, Drake convinced his newest feminine fan to locate the Paternoster Square evidence boxes for them. “This is Detective Sergeant Mercer's case,” she said as the file data replaced the ID picture on her screen. “Are you two working for him?”

Drake hesitated and Nick realized his teammate had not been formally introduced to their captor. He coughed an affirmative.

“Uh . . . Yes,” said Drake. “Yes, we are.”

“You poor dears.” The clerk stood up to retrieve the evidence. “That man is a total git.”

There were three file boxes. The first contained their empty satchels and overcoats. The second held their phones, fake ID wallets, cash, and all the equipment taken from the coats and satchels—everything tagged and bagged in ziplocks. Nick checked over his shoulder. The clerk had returned to her romance novel. He nodded to Drake and they quietly emptied the bags and pocketed what they could.

The third box contained only one item—a blackened thumb drive, also bagged and tagged. The tag, filled out by Mercer himself, noted that the drive had been recovered from the rubble in the Exchange server room. Mercer had added a statement postulating that it was the source of the computer virus.

“Where are the weapons?” Drake turned the last box over as if he expected their Berettas and MP7s to fall onto the table.

“They must have a separate lockup for firearms.”

Drake glanced back at the clerk. She looked up from her book and waved to him, wiggling her fingers. He waved back, wiggling his own. “I can get them. No problem.”

“If there's a second lockup, she doesn't run it, chucklehead. No, we've already pushed the envelope too far.” Nick stuffed the thumb drive into his jacket pocket, bag and all. “It's time to go.”

He waited in the hall while Drake returned the boxes to the lockers and checked out with the clerk. On the way to the elevators, the big operative handed him a slip of paper. “She gave me this.”

The block print showed the names McCormick and Gale, the evidence file numbers, and the in-and-out times. “It's just a receipt,” said Nick.

Drake gave him a sly grin. “Flip it over.”

On the back was a cell-phone number, circled with a heart. Nick slapped the paper into Drake's chest. “You sicken me.”

As they reached the bank of elevators, one of the cars opened and a man in a black overcoat started out. He looked up from the smartphone in his hand and froze, staring at the two Americans. “You!”

Detective Sergeant Mercer reached for his Glock but he never got the chance to draw. Nick grabbed his wrist and clapped a hand over his mouth, heaving him back into the car until his head slammed against the rear wall. The detective slumped to the floor.

Nick pressed the button for the lobby and then snapped his fingers, holding out an open palm that Drake promptly filled with a CO
₂
injector he had recovered from their satchels. Nick jammed it into Mercer's neck and released the charge. Then he pulled the detective's Glock from its holster and tucked it into his own waistband.

A few seconds later, the elevator bell rang, and the doors opened to a view of New Scotland Yard's gray marble lobby and the freedom of the London night beyond. “I guess that makes you even,” said Drake, glancing back at the drooling detective as he stepped out of the car.

Nick hit the out of service button, smashed the detective's phone under his heel, and squeezed out through the closing doors. He looked up at his teammate with a thin smile. “He had it coming. That man is a total git.”