The Black List (12 page)

“How are you today, Tony?”

And he especially hated it when they called him by name as if they personally knew him.

“Hunky-dory.”

The woman checked her notes, lifting up a sheet inside the manila folder. “I’m curious, since we don’t seem to have discussed it. Why is it you flew all the way out here instead of seeing the doctor they have on retainer in San Francisco?”

“Seemed like the prudent thing to do.”

She gave a neutral smile, as though waiting for him to enumerate.

He was good at waiting games.

“Why?” she finally asked.

“Couldn’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Is there some magic phrase you need me to use so I can get back to work?” he asked, fast losing patience. “I’ve got a full caseload, and the way budgets are being cut right and left, the taxpayers will appreciate if they’re getting their money’s worth.”

“You seem a little stressed.”

“Seriously?” She didn’t know the half of it. And unfortunately it wasn’t like he could tell her. “Every day I’m kept from my job is another day these dirtbags get away with crimes because some misguided psychoanalyst feels like she knows what’s best for me. When she’s only met me twice, I might add. You can call it whatever the hell you want. Just get me back to work.”

She closed the folder and stood. “I think we’re done here, Mr. Carillo.”

So it was
Mister
Carillo now. “Then how am I supposed to go back to work?”

“I was going to suggest a couple more days. I’ll have to rethink that.”

“To something shorter?”

“When’s the last time you took a vacation?”

“I dunno. Couple years, why?”

She walked over, pulled open the door. “I’m recommending you don’t come back until you’ve had at
least
a week off.”

“A week? What the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Take up knitting, for all I care. You have seven days. Use it.”

He grabbed his coat, headed out, then stopped in the doorway. “Do I stay home? Go somewhere?”

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

“I’ve never been to London. You think seven days is enough time to visit there and maybe some of the surrounding areas?”

“You want more time, call. Getting away from work is
exactly
what you need.”

“Thanks, Doctor. I’m feeling better about this already.”

19

Since Sydney’s agenda was
quite the opposite of Carillo’s, she had no trouble getting her return to duty from the psychologist, and as soon as she walked out, she picked up Carillo from the lobby downstairs, then drove straight to HQ.

While Carillo was in getting his “vacation” approved from the powers that be, Sydney tried several times to get through to Griffin to let him know this latest turn of events. For whatever reason, he wasn’t answering.

Frustrated when she couldn’t even get Tex to answer his phone, she called Griffin back and left a voice mail. “Sheila took off to England. Can you call when you get a chance?”

“Maybe you should text him,” Carillo offered.

“If he’s in his office, the signal won’t go through. Besides, politeness dictates he should return my call. It’s not like this isn’t important.”

“Except he has a stubborn streak almost as wide as yours.”

“Wider.”

Carillo checked his watch. “You could always drive over there.”

“And how will you get to the airport?”

“I’m a big boy, Fitzpatrick. I can fend for myself.”

When she hesitated, he said, “Go already. We’re talking about my wife, and if anyone at ATLAS can find out what the hell she’s involved in or heading into, I’d like a heads-up before my plane lands in Heathrow.”

“All right. I’m going.”

She drove to ATLAS headquarters, telling herself that she was doing this for Carillo’s case,
not
because she wanted to see Griffin. What she didn’t expect was to be thwarted by the reception staff, who wouldn’t let her past the first floor of the
Washington Recorder.
It didn’t matter that they recognized her from past visits. Unless Griffin, Tex, or someone from the “editorial staff” floor gave permission, she was not getting on that elevator. They would, however, be more than happy to pass on the message that she stopped by.

Lovely.

If only she could remember exactly how to get in the secret back entrance, through the subway tunnels below, not that she’d have any better luck in that direction. The massive vaultlike steel doors that led into ATLAS headquarters via the underground could only be accessed by fingerprint and code. As she walked through the parking lot, she called Griffin one more time, got his voice mail, informed him that she was there at his office, then stopped short when she saw his black SUV. Turning, she looked up at the fifth floor, about where she thought his office was situated, knowing damn well he was up there. Maybe even watching her.

Why the sudden noncommunication thing?

She returned to the lobby and walked up to the receptionist. “Can you relay
one
more message to Mr. Griffin?”

It was about that point she realized that the man was looking at someone behind her. She turned, saw Griffin standing in the elevator, holding the door open. She didn’t even want to decipher the look on his face.

“You needed to see me?” he said, moving aside so she could step on.

“You didn’t return my phone calls,” she told him once the elevator door shut.

“I was in a meeting all morning. Did you think about calling the secretary to have her interrupt me?”

“You have a secretary?”

The elevator stopped on his floor, and he allowed her to disembark first. “Someone has to screen the calls from impatient FBI agents. What were you planning on telling him downstairs to get me there any faster?”

“That I’d follow you to England to investigate this myself.”

“England?” He gave her an amused look as he escorted her into his office. It was pieced together from a surplus warehouse of castoffs: scratched and scarred gray metal desk; one guest chair, also gray, with attached slate blue vinyl seat back and cushion, circa 1960s; another chair, dark wood with burgundy upholstery, looking like it hailed from the mid-1980s. The only luxury in these days of budget cuts was his ergonomic desk chair. “Quite a ways to travel just to get me a message.”

“I followed you to Rome, didn’t I?”

“Good thing I showed up when I did. Saved you from embarrassing yourself.”

“Why?”

“I’m not going to England. So what was so important you couldn’t wait for me to finish my meeting, check my voice mail, and get back to you?”

“Carillo’s wife took off to London after Trip.”

“How?”

“I’m guessing she walked up to a ticket counter, plunked down her credit card and said, ‘One flight to England, please.’ I’m pretty sure it didn’t occur to Carillo that she would do something that stupid.”

“Apparently he’s not the only one who underestimates the opposite sex.”

“I wasn’t
really
planning on taking off.”

He gave her a look that said he only half believed her as he took a seat, typing in his password to access his computer. She glanced across the room to a photo of Griffin and his late wife, Becca, both in ski gear on the slopes of some mountain.

“Looks like her flight’s already landed. We could have stopped her if we’d known earlier. Carillo’s going after her, I take it?”

“Yes. His plane leaves in about an hour.”

“Have Carillo call me on the landline before he leaves. I’ll fill him in on a few things.”

“What things?”

“There’s a bit of overlap on Trip’s charity and a case we’re working. I’ll call Donovan. He can put Carillo up at the safe house MI6 is letting us use.”

“What sort of overlap?” she asked.

“You’re going to have to trust me on this,” he said, getting up and walking her to the door. “We have a lot of things going on right now, and it would take way too long to go into it. Do you need an escort to the lobby?”

He was teasing her, and she was glad to see that his mood was improving. “No. I think I can manage. Assuming you can trust me to get from here to the elevator on my own.” She started to walk out but then stopped, realizing there was a big unanswered question. “Back in my apartment when we first learned Trip flew to England. Why were you so adamant that I shouldn’t go?”

He drew her in, closed the door, then kissed her, just like he had on New Year’s eve. “Does that answer your question?”

A knock on the other side of the door startled her.

“Griff?”

He took a deep breath, stepped back and allowed Sydney to move away before he opened the door. “Yeah?” he said.

Tex looked up from some piece of paperwork. “Here’s the—” And then he saw Sydney standing a few feet away. “I’ll, uh, come back later.”

“I was just leaving,” Sydney told him. She walked out, Tex moving aside to let her pass.

“Syd?”

She stopped at the sound of Griffin’s voice, turned, hoped she looked more composed than she felt.

“Call Carillo and tell him that one of us will fly out with him to help.” He was pointing toward Tex.

She smiled. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

20

Eve unwrapped her scarf,
then sat at the table, across from Lou, the one man in England she could trust. He was the one who had helped her arrange the last-minute ticket for Trip. “Sorry I’m late,” she said.

“Do you think he suspected you?”

“Trip? Not a chance. All he wanted to do was get out of the U.S. and away from his girlfriend. Fool that he is, I think he’s more worried about Sheila’s FBI husband stirring things up than any threat that might come on this side of the Atlantic.” She leaned back in her seat, grateful to have a moment to relax, no matter how brief. “I have Sheila’s husband to thank for being brought in for questioning at the D.C. event, something that was
not
on my agenda. Apparently he or his wife called in a couple reporters to look into Trip’s embezzlement charges.”

“And Micah?”

“I’ve got to finalize a few arrangements later this afternoon at the hotel where his event is taking place. But I can tell you this. If Micah ever comes up for air and notices anything he shouldn’t, they’ll probably kill him. Right now, he’s so busy patting himself on the back, he hasn’t a clue what I’m doing. He sure as hell didn’t notice when three gunmen—” Her gaze caught on Lou’s watch as he lifted his cup to take a drink. “Oh, crap. Is it really that late? I have to go.” She pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ll call you the moment I hear anything.”

Eve rushed out the door, then down the street, weaving through the pedestrians who had just disembarked from a double-decker bus, all of whom seemed to be going in the opposite direction. She pushed through them, reached the corner. The light was red and she looked to her left, saw no cars, then stepped from the curb, only to be pulled short when the man next to her grabbed her by her arm.

“Careful, miss. Traffic comes from that direction,” he said, nodding to her right just as a black taxicab zipped around the corner, proving his point.

“Thanks.”

This time she looked to the right, saw it was clear, then darted across the street and on around the corner toward the Tube. She rushed down the stairs, slapped her fare card against the reader, pushed through the turnstile, then hurried to the platform, breathing a sigh of relief that she made the train. She walked toward the front, took a seat by the door so that she could exit the moment it stopped. As long as there were no unexpected delays, she should only be a minute or two late.

Hardly enough to warrant a second look. She hoped.

The train stopped and she let herself be carried by the forward momentum of the exiting crowd, then hurried up the steps, dodging passengers descending from the street above. In less than five minutes she arrived at the A
.
D
.
E. building in the financial center of London. Clayton Barclay, CEO of A
.
D
.
E., maintained an office here, as well as in the United States. American by birth, he’d lived in Great Britain these past three years but traveled extensively between the two countries to run the worldwide organization that collected, accounted for, and disbursed the money from a number of different charities beneath the A
.
D
.
E. umbrella.

The warm air from the lobby washed over her as she pushed through the rotating glass door, and once inside, she removed her gloves, grateful to be out of the cold. Barclay’s office was located on the third floor of the four-story building, a quick elevator ride up. She entered the offices, greeted the receptionist, then walked back to the meeting room, where she saw him seated at the conference table through the open door. She entered and smiled at him, even though inside she had nothing to smile about. The entire operation was bungled from start to finish.

“Eve. Good of you to make it.” Barclay gave her a cold look as she sat down, and all she could do was take it. He was the man in charge of the money. The man in charge of them all. “Now that everyone is present,” he said, “we can get started on the progress report.” He looked right at her. “Eve?”

She hadn’t expected to go first and wasn’t prepared. “The book’s still missing.”

“Where is it?”

“I can’t say, primarily because the person I was
supposed
to get it from is dead.”

“Dorian Rose?” Barclay said. “He was talking to reporters.”

“You were supposed to give me a chance to talk to him. What’d you think he was going to do? Just hand the thing over to a couple thugs who show up at his door?” she said, nodding to Willis, one of the gunmen seated across the table from her.

Willis smiled. “You seem on edge.”

“Could it be because you and your idiot partners almost ruined the fund-raiser and all the work I’ve done so far?”

Barclay slammed his hand on the table and she nearly jumped from her seat. “A couple reporters showed up asking questions after talking to Dorian Rose. What did you think I was going to do? Let them have free rein?”