Shadow Maker (13 page)

15,000 feet over France

H
ey, are you awake?” asked Drake, reaching across the Gulfstream's aisle to poke Nick's arm.

Nick sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. “I'm awake. I was just replaying the Kattan strike in my head.”

“We acted on our intelligence,” said Drake. “And we had no choice. That guy engineered attacks in Iraq that killed thirty-four U.S. soldiers and more than a hundred Iraqis. He was going to do it again.”

“His son was twelve years old. He was an American citizen.” Early in the Kattan chase, they had learned about his affair with a woman in New York. They knew about the boy, Masih, but they had no record of him ever going to Yemen.

Drake waved his hands. “Kattan is the one who brought the kid out there. That's on him. We didn't know.”

“But we knew afterward. We should have tried to recover the boy's body. We owed him that much.” Nick laid his head back again and stared up at the cabin ceiling.

The CIA had operated its remotely piloted aircraft in Yemen with the consent of the Yemeni government, but there were compromises in the deal. One of those was the sanctity of Muslim bodies after a strike. The CIA could not touch them. The remains had to be left for the Yemeni authorities to collect for proper burial. All the Agency could do was montior the removal and hope they got enough video to confirm that a target was dead. Once the bodies were out of sight, the word of the local coroner would be highly suspect.

But Nick and Drake were not bound by any international agreement. They were not CIA, and the Yemeni government had no knowledge of their presence. They could have reached the target area before the local authorities arrived. They could have confirmed the death of the child. Instead, still numb from the strike, Nick and Drake had packed up and left.

“I didn't want to see that boy up close,” said Nick. “I didn't want that image locked in my head for the rest of my life.”

“I know,” said Drake. “I didn't either.”

“But if we had, if we had gone down there and checked the bodies”—Nick rolled his head left to look his teammate in the eye—“we would have realized the kid was still alive.”

—

The team left the Gulfstream in a hangar at London City Airport and set up shop in a two-bedroom apartment at Cygnet House, in Greenwich.

“Why do I always get the couch?” complained Scott, setting up a spiny SATCOM antenna on the balcony. Despite the cold, he wore only a lime green T-shirt with his jeans. Block lettering on the front said:
I'M SMARTER THAN YOUR BOYFRIEND.

Nick was running the antenna's cable along the baseboards behind the couch in question. “Because
your
room has to be the command center, and the command center has to be in the living room. Do you want me to put Drake in charge of your equipment?”

Scott winced. “Absolutely not.”

“Then quit complaining.” Nick secured the cable to the back of one of Scott's three laptops with a multi-tool and then stood up, slipping the tool into the leg pocket of his cargo pants. He brushed the dust off the long sleeves of his black thermal and turned to face the engineer. “What are we doing about Masih Kattan?”

The engineer cast one more wary look at the frayed couch cushions and then waved Nick back from the computers, out of his way. “While you two were lounging on the plane, I was back in the workstation getting us a head start.” He sat down and tapped at a wireless keyboard, bringing all three laptops to life. Two of the screens showed freeze-frames of their Budapest target, one captured from Raven's satellite footage and the other from the camera at Heathrow airport. The third screen showed a facial sketch that Scott had built from Nick's description. “I took what surveillance images we had and fed them into the same program that helped you identify Grendel. Neither caught the subject's face. For that, I had to depend on our sketch. So the digital profile is much less complete.”

“Nice pick on the digs, boss,” interrupted Drake, emerging from his bedroom. He wore a loud, orange and yellow Hawaiian shirt, the one he called his relaxation shirt. He grinned at Scott. “Who knew you could find a California king in jolly old England. That baby is already calling my name.”

Nick ignored him and pressed the engineer. “So you're saying our chances of finding Kattan are slim.”

Scott shrugged. “If I set the program to scan the feeds from London's traffic and rail-station cams, we might get lucky. The tattoo will be the clincher. The software is set to view anyone with the same mark as a dead match. London has a lot of cameras. Kattan can't hide forever.”

“No, but we don't have forever to find him. We need to locate this Dr. Maharani and find out what he knows.” Nick grabbed his satchel from the couch and turned toward his room. As he did, the photo he had found at the knife shop fell onto the cushion. He picked it up, and for the first time he noticed a handwritten equation on the back.

632,000 × 0.05 = 31,600

-31,600

600,400

The final number was circled.

“Hey, I know what that equation means,” said Drake, looking over Nick's shoulder. He pointed to the first number. “This is a population figure before an outbreak. The subtracted amount represents potential survivors. Five percent is the standard estimation of people who will be immune to a virus.”

“How could you possibly know that?” argued Scott.

“Zombie apocalypse,” countered Drake, folding his arms. “Every prepper takes it for granted that he's part of the five percent. It's the only hope we have.”

“Finally we get something useful out of your ridiculous hobby.”

“It is not a hobby, it is
survival
.”

Nick snapped his fingers at his teammates. “Focus, please.” He held the picture in front of Drake's nose. “What does the last number mean, the one that's circled?”

Drake shrugged. “That's the fatality estimate, the number of people the virus will kill.”

Nick pushed past him and slapped the photo down next to Scott's computers. “I've been carrying around the answer to one of our biggest questions for hours, and I had no idea. Scott, how many cities have a population of 632,000?”

The engineer clicked at his keyboard and quickly came up with a result. “A few,” he said, rolling out of the way so that Nick and Drake could see the screen.

Only one result from the short list of cities stood out to Nick. Only one made any sense. “These numbers tell us the target for the bio-attack,” he said, picking up the photograph again. “They tell us it's Washington, DC.”

D
rake regarded his phony Interpol ID with a sour look, rubbing his thumb across the brass shield. Crammed into the right seat of the rented Peugeot hatchback, the big operative could easily have passed for Gulliver in Lilliput. Like Nick, he had exchanged his grunge clothes for business attire appropriate to the Interpol persona, and the overcoat he wore only amplified his disproportionate appearance in the small car. “Why Drake Martignetti?”

“It's Italian. It suits you.”

“I'm Greek.”

“Who can tell? You Mediterranean types all look the same.”

Nick adjusted the dials of a microwave camera sitting on the dash, tuning an image of Maharani's three-story Kensington row house that a USB cable fed to a tablet computer on his lap. The video feed looked something like an ultrasound, assuming the doctor conducting the ultrasound was drunk. Intel techs often likened interpreting microwave video to interpreting chicken entrails.

“I don't like this,” said Drake.

“It's too late to get a new cover name.”

“Not the name, the plan. We need to take a step back and stake this guy out for a couple of days. If the doctor's working for Kattan, we might be walking into another firefight.”

“We don't have a couple of days. And there's no ambush here.” Nick lifted the tablet so that Drake could see. He pointed to a green, vaguely human-shaped blob, undulating across the first floor. “I see one guy, probably Maharani. You have to trust the equipment.”

“Right. Because microwave is so dependable.” Drake flipped the Interpol ID wallet closed with a
slap
. “I don't look Italian at all.”

—

Nick rang the bell next to Maharani's carved oak door and waited. When no one answered, he rang again. After a few seconds, he glanced up at Drake and jerked his chin toward the near end of the joined houses. “Head around back.”

After selecting a bump key, it took Nick less than four seconds to unlock both the dead bolt and the knob and silently push through. He stepped into a hall with dark wood flooring that ran all the way to the back of the house. Up and to the left, an open doorway led to a carpeted living area, and farther down another led to a kitchen. To his immediate right, a stairway led up to the bedroom floors above. He closed the door behind him, pocketed the bump key, and drew his Taser.

The microwave camera had last shown the flat's one occupant on the first floor, in a room on the right side. By now, he could be anywhere. Nick checked the living area first. He saw no one, just some ugly green furniture and a couple of ebony curios full of knickknacks. As he returned to the hallway, Drake appeared at the other end. Nick pointed at his own eyes and shook his head and then pointed at Drake. His teammate shook his head as well. Drake had not seen anyone either. Then Nick heard a
bump
from the wall to his right.

Drake heard it too. The two operatives converged on a closed door beneath the stairwell. Nick held a finger up for his teammate to wait, raised his Taser, and then nodded.

As soon as Drake turned the knob, the door swung open. A broom handle came crashing down and smacked him in the forehead. Nick would have laughed if the handle hadn't reared back again for another blow.

Drake grabbed the stick and yanked hard, and a young Indian woman stumbled out into the hall, still maintaining a death grip on the other end of the broom. She struggled hopelessly against Drake for a couple of seconds and then abandoned her weapon and ran, hitting Nick in the ribs with a sharp little shoulder as she shot between them. She disappeared into the kitchen.

“Why didn't you Tase her?” asked Drake, rubbing the welt on his head.

“Why didn't you?”

Nick tilted his head toward the kitchen. “She's going for a knife. We should probably go get her.”

“After you, then.”

The girl took a swipe at Nick with a chopping knife as soon as he passed through the doorway. He lurched back and then maneuvered deeper into the room so that Drake could follow and hem her in. He assessed the subject. Other than the knife, she hardly looked threatening—five foot three in her heels and a buck ten, if that. She wore formfitting gray slacks and a forest green blouse, not the typical attire of a burglar or a terrorist. He kept his Taser pointed at her shins. “We're Interpol, ma'am. Drop the knife.”

“Please, ma'am,” Drake chimed in, circling right. “Drop it.”

Before Drake finished the command, it was Nick's turn again. “Drop the knife. We don't want to Tase you.”

The technique was called barrage. A single, rapidly repeated command issued from multiple angles. Sensory overload blocked a subject's ability to make complex decisions, leaving them with only three basic options—fight, flight, or compliance. All but the most hardened criminals chose compliance.

After the second round of commands, the woman dropped the knife onto the counter with a heavy
clank
and raised her hands. Tears formed at the edges of her almond eyes. “Who are you? What have you done with my father?”

Nick held out a badge that declared him to be Nicholas Stafford of American Interpol, the same badge he had used in Istanbul. While the girl's eyes were focused on the wallet, Drake stepped in and pulled the knife away. “We haven't done anything with your father,” said Nick. “We just want to ask him a few questions.”

It took several minutes to calm her down, and Nick was forced to produce a British search warrant that Scott had created, signed by a local magistrate who did not exist. When she was finally convinced that the two Americans were not there to kidnap her, the young woman introduced herself as Chaya Maharani, the biologist's daughter. She led them into the living area and invited them to sit down in a pair of worn mint-green chairs. Chaya remained standing, pacing in front of the matching sofa, her reflection ghosting back and forth across a polished ebony coffee table.

“I have not heard from my father in two days,” she explained. “His company claims that he came to the office yesterday afternoon and took a leave of absence.” Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “Mother is gone. I am his only family. If he went on a vacation, I would know it.”

“Did you go to the police?” asked Drake.

“They said he hasn't been missing long enough. Please, if you know something about his disappearance, you must tell me.”

Nick did not have time to play things close to the vest. He put his cards on the table. “Miss Maharani, we believe that your father is involved in an attempt to create a biological weapon.”

“Impossible.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes and then her hands went to her hips. “My father's viral research is designed to improve life, not take it.”

“What if he's being coerced?” asked Drake. “Is there anything a terrorist group could use against him? Maybe an affair?”

Nick cast a sharp glance at his teammate.

Chaya scowled at him too. “I just told you that my mother is gone. If my father were seeing anyone—which he is not—it would hardly qualify as an affair.”

Nick was losing her. He softened his tone, switching roles from interrogator to helpful outsider. “What about his finances? Does he have any large debts that might make him vulnerable?”

Chaya collapsed onto the sofa. “Everyone has mountains of debt these days. And what would I know about his finances? In my culture, a child does not question her parents about such things.”

Nick smiled, hiding his frustration behind empathetic words. “My family is from the midwestern U.S.,” he said. “We have the very same tradition.” He stopped asking questions. This whole exercise was pointless. Molly had already delved into the biologist's past. His known financial dealings were clean, and just as Chaya had said, his work was aimed at attacking disease and genetic disorders, not symbols of democracy.

Nick stood and offered a hand across the black coffee table. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Maharani. We need to go.”

The girl walked them to the door and saw them out without any pleasantries. They made it all the way back to the Peugeot before she suddenly called out from the doorway. “Mr. Stafford,” she called, using the name from Nick's Interpol badge.

He turned to see her standing on her father's steps, holding his warrant out at arm's length. Nick patted his coat. Had he really left the bogus legal document in her hands? He put on his best government employee smile and hurried back across the street to keep her from raising her voice and involving the whole neighborhood. “Yes, ma'am?”

Chaya closed the door and walked down the steps. She had donned a tapered blue peacoat, like she was going somewhere. “You can drop the ma'ams, Mr. Stafford. I'm not one of those Brits who equates all Americans with cowboys. I'm also not one who blindly accepts a warrant. When you looked into my father, you must have read something about me. Did you happen to notice what I do for a living?”

Nick winced. Yes, he had. “Chaya Maharani,” he recited, “assistant solicitor for the firm of Taylor and Brown, London office.”

“What does that mean?” whispered Drake, catching up to him.

“It means she's a lawyer,” Nick whispered back.

“Oh. Not good.”

Chaya offered him a congenial smile. She seemed to have gathered her composure rather quickly since the impromptu interrogation. “Mr. Stafford—may I call you Nicholas?”

“Nick's fine.”

“Nick it is, then. As you might guess, I'm quite familiar with the magistrates in Central London.” The girl held up the warrant pinched between a thumb and forefinger and jiggled the paper. “I find it odd that I've never heard of this one.”

Nick reached up to retrieve the warrant, but Chaya jerked it away.

“What are you implying?”

“I'm not implying anything . . . yet. I would like to propose a partnership. My father is missing, and you are the only ones who seem to know anything about it. Why don't you let me tag along on your investigation?”

“Out of the question.”

“Then Interpol won't mind if I give this document to one or two
nonfictional
magistrates that I know.” She gave her hair a melodramatic toss and batted her eyes. “You've no idea how eager to please these judges can be around cute little solicitors like me.”

“Oh, I think I do.” Nick's hand went for his Taser of its own accord.

Drake caught his wrist. “She can help. Who knows Maharani better than his own daughter?”

Chaya flashed a sugar-sweet smile, showing perfectly straight white teeth, and then stepped around Nick and hooked Drake's arm. She tucked the warrant into the pocket of her peacoat. “I guess it's settled then.”