FOUR
Almost an hour later, Cobb was still at his desk inside the ARU headquarters thinking about the Adams suicide. He was going over and over it in his mind in a loop, like the Breaking News banner on the news channel, trying to process what had happened.
Thinking hard, he suddenly reached forward across his desk and scooped up a black phone receiver from its cradle, pushing 1 on the keypad. The call connected to Nikki next door, the head of his analyst group, a dark-haired woman in her late twenties who did a great job running the entire tech team. He looked up and saw her grab her phone, not looking away from her computer, sitting with her back to him as she took the call.
‘Nikki,’ she said, seeing it was on the internal line.
‘Nikki, it's me. Who’s handling the Charlie Adams investigation?’ Cobb asked.
‘Hang on, sir, I’ll check,’ she said.
Through the glass of his office, he saw her place the receiver to one side and start tapping keys on her computer. He sipped his second espresso of the morning, the caffeine not helping his agitation. There was a pause.
‘A Detective-Inspector Graham in CID,’ she said.
‘Can you find out if they've spoken to Charlie’s wife yet?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Cobb put the phone back on the cradle and looked back up at the television screen. As he took another hit of espresso, he saw through the glass the sergeant of his task force, Porter, approaching his office door. He was dressed in some dark blue jeans and a grey sweater, the jumper emphasising his wide shoulders and strong frame.
Porter was a dark-featured guy in his mid-thirties, an imposing figure of a man, but he was a gentle giant. He was one of those people who never swore, no matter how bad the situation or how frustrated he was feeling. He reminded Cobb of one of those big dogs at the park who remained aloof and kept their patience whenever smaller dogs nipped and bothered at them, never losing his temper or biting back, endlessly patient no matter what the provocation. Cobb had seen people underestimate Porter, mistaking his quiet patience for weakness, but every one of them had quickly discovered their mistake. He was strong and loyal, and like Charlie Adams, was someone Cobb had taken to immediately as a human being.
His predecessor, a tough-as-nails army veteran called Mac, had retired towards the end of last year and Porter had been a shoe-in as his replacement. Everyone had approved of his selection, and so far Port had proved to be an outstanding choice as a leader. The men on the task force all liked him, but more importantly they all trusted him, the most crucial thing when out there in the field. Since he'd taken over, Porter had led the team against a potential terrorist plot and also the drug-dealing ring that the Unit had smashed just over a week ago, and the success of both operations had left no doubt in Cobb's mind that he had chosen the right man to be Mac's replacement.
Although he saw Cobb watching him approach, Porter still stopped and knocked on the glass, respecting rank. Cobb nodded and Porter entered the office, closing the door behind him.
‘Morning, Port.’
‘Morning, sir.’
Stepping further into the office, Porter glanced up at the television screen, at the headline running on the lower portion of the television, black text on a yellow stream under the newsreader.
Breaking News: Political candidate Charlie Adams commits suicide on South Bank early this morning.
Porter looked over at Cobb and shook his head.
‘Sad news.'
'Yes. It is.'
'Deaks mentioned he was a friend of yours?’
Cobb nodded. ‘We worked together a few years ago.’
Both men watched the screen in silence as a photo of Adams in suit and tie came onto the screen. He was smiling and waving to a crowd on a podium, a lectern in front of him, either before or just after he had given some kind of speech. Even out of combat fatigues and dressed in the suit, the man still cut an impressive figure, the broad musculature of his shoulders and arms clear under the dark suit jacket, his eyes narrowed warmly as he smiled at the crowd.
'Did you know of him?' Cobb asked.
Porter nodded. 'Yes, sir. He gave a speech in my local area last month. Impressive guy. He had my vote, that was for sure.'
Pause.
'The report said he left a widow and a small boy. A real shame.’
‘Yes. It is.’
Just then, the phone on Cobb’s desk rang. He reached over and pushed a button for the loudspeaker on the phone.
'Yep?'
‘Sir, I spoke to CID,’ Nikki said, her voice filling the office. ‘I have some bad news.’
‘What?’
‘The wife and boy are both missing.’
‘What?’
‘No one has seen or heard from them since the news of the suicide. Not family, nor friends. They’ve just vanished. The boy didn’t show up for school, and the woman isn’t picking up her phone.’
‘What about the house?’
‘DI Graham went round to talk to her, but no one answered. When they eventually got inside, he and another detective found two unmade beds upstairs. The master and the kid’s room. But the house was empty. No bags were packed though. Everything was still there. Clothes, valuables, the whole lot. They haven’t done a runner.’
‘Maybe they had a fight,’ Porter suggested, loud enough so Nikki could hear.
‘Seems unlikely,’ Nikki said. ‘DI Graham said the neighbours told him they heard no noise last night, saw no one arrive or leave the house. Adams was at the office until midnight anyway, so if they argued, it would have been over the phone.’
She paused, as Cobb and Porter absorbed what she’d just said.
‘Speaking of his office, I have more news for your sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘DI Graham spoke to the receptionist at Mr Adams' office. The girl said a letter came in the post for him late last night, around eleven o'clock, completely out of the blue. She said she gave it to him before he went home for the night, around midnight. She was the last person who saw him alive.’
Cobb looked at Porter, and both men frowned.
‘Have they found the letter?’ Cobb asked.
‘No, sir. But they found the envelope in his car. Forensics took a swab from the seal and are already running it to try and match the DNA. They're also checking the envelope for prints or anything at all they can trace which might tell us where it came from. When they found his body, the report said there were black remnants of burnt paper by his feet. Two different types. Standard sheet paper and photographic.’
Cobb nodded. ‘Any details?’
‘No sir. They were only singed edges, all curled up. The letter and photographs themselves were torched. Only parts of the edges are left, and those are black and charred.’
Cobb swore.
‘Shit. What progress is DI Graham making re the two missing persons?’
‘They are already going through her phonebook and contacting friends and family. He hasn’t alerted the press yet, but he’s going to let them know shortly and put out a plea for public help to call them immediately if there are any sightings. Adams’ wife was starting to become recognisable to people, so he thinks that might help locate her.’
‘OK. Stay on it. The moment it comes in, I want to know of any progress. If anything comes up that is relevant, let me know. And I mean anything.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The call ended. Cobb shook his head and leaned back in his chair, looking at Porter.
‘Shit, Port. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ Porter said. ‘Maybe someone had dirt on him? Elections are coming up. Something from his past that he wouldn't want anyone to find out about? They put it in the letter and he felt it was worth killing himself over?’
‘Bad enough to blow his brains out?’ Cobb asked, frowning. He shook his head. ‘No way. That's not the person I knew. He was a good man, through and through. He would never have done anything so bad he’d kill himself. And that doesn’t explain his family going missing.’
Porter thought for a moment.
‘I hate to say it, but kidnap?’
Cobb exhaled slowly, then nodded.
‘Looks probable, doesn’t it. Shit. And the letter is definitely connected. Who delivers mail at eleven o’clock at night? Who knew he’d still be at his office? And why would he burn it?’
Porter nodded.
‘Nikki said there were two kinds. Sheet and photographic. So probably text and photographs. Maybe a threat and a visual aid.’
There was a silence.
‘Shit,’ Cobb said again. ‘Anyway, whatever happens, we'll stay close to it. It's not our investigation, but I damn well want to be kept in the loop about this. That press release about the missing persons will help.’
‘You think someone will find them?’
Cobb looked at him.
‘I hope so.’
Across the city in Mayfair, an American in a smart suit was making his way along Upper Grosvenor Street, carrying nothing save a briefcase, his expensive shoes clicking on the smooth concrete pavement as he walked. Turning the corner to his left and checking the time on a Tag Heuer watch on his wrist, the man arrived in Grosvenor Square, the home of most of the foreign embassies located in London. The weather was good, the sun shining down, and the air was fresh, clean and mild. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath and enjoying the view, then continued on his journey, heading along the western side of the Square and straight towards the United States Embassy.
The building stood out in the district, primarily because it was at least twice the size of every other embassy in the area. But it was also unique in that it was the only United States Embassy in the world not built on official US soil. A contentious dispute in the 1950's between the Grosvenors, an upper class English family and owners of the Square, and the United States Government had seen the Americans settle for a 999 year lease on the plot of land instead of outright ownership, a different deal from those usually signed in Embassy agreements. The Americans had requested that the section of the Square where the Embassy would be built become United States soil, but the Grosvenors refused. The Duke of Westminster at the time, a Grosvenor, had apparently attempted to resolve the on-going spat with a proposed deal. He told the Americans that if they returned all the lands ‘stolen’ by the United States after the War of Independence to the UK, then they could buy the site on the west side of Grosvenor Square and do whatever they wanted with it.
However, the Americans found a slight hitch in the proposition.
The lands the Duke wanted returned included most of Maine and New York State.
Unsurprisingly, the American Government refused the offer. Consequently, they were forced to rent the plot of land instead. So although not officially US soil, there were United States marines armed with sub-machine guns standing guard at various positions outside the long building that morning, as there were every day. In any country around the world the US Embassy was a priority terrorist target, a chance to hurt the US without having to try and breach their borders, and the London office was at the top of that list given the Americans’ and the UK’s close relations and military coalition in conflicts around the world. It was especially well-defended, not only with manpower but with some of the most advanced and up to date security technology placed in and around the building. Such measures were for two reasons. The building was officially the United States Embassy in London.
But it was also the unofficial British substation for the Central Intelligence Agency.
Outside the building was a glass hut with an x-ray machine and body scanner. Seeing as an application for a US visa could only be approved after an appointment here, every day there was a long queue of hopeful people waiting to pass their bags and contents of their pockets through the machine and be patted down before they entered the building. Once inside, they were then shepherded to a long waiting hall to the left and told to wait for their final interview and hopefully, an approval. As a matter of course, they would be looking at a several hour wait at least before they got called, the entire process from joining the queue to leaving the building taking close to four hours, sometimes more, and it wasn’t uncommon for someone to spend most of the working day in there, waiting to be processed.
Walking past the queue of people waiting to move through the security point, the American moved in through a side door to the hut as people stuck in the line looked on enviously. Two guards were working the x-ray machine and metal detector and they nodded at the man as he placed his briefcase on the conveyor, grabbing a grey bin and dropping a wallet and mobile phone into the tray. His dark suit was cut to fit, 42 regular with a 32 waist, so he had no belt, nor any spare change in his pockets.
‘Morning sir,’ one of the guards said.
‘Good morning,’ the man said.
He walked through the metal detector which didn’t make a sound. Although he knew it wouldn’t, the American still felt that moment of relief that everyone did when they passed through one of the machines and it didn’t go off.
He retrieved his things from the tray, returning them to his pockets, then scooped up his briefcase and headed off towards the entrance to the Embassy.
He’d lived in London for over a decade and after a rocky start, he found that he liked it more and more with each passing year. He'd arrived here in 1999, fresh out of his training at Camp Peary just outside Williamsburg, Virginia, aka ‘The Farm’, where every CIA trainee goes to learn his craft and hopefully then graduate into a position with the Agency. He’d excelled at the paramilitary and tradecraft operations set up by the agency instructors, and being just twenty five at the time and a non-smoker, had been in excellent physical condition, cruising through all the fitness tests. He had learned everything he could ever need in the field, from defensive driving and handling Zodiac boats to hand-to-hand combat and parachuting. He’d learnt interrogation techniques, manipulation and evasion tactics, how to deceive and turn the tables from having an enemy watching you to you watching him, and had finished the training fully expecting to become an NOC, a non-official cover, an operative who would work overseas with no official ties to the United States Government. Basically, a spy.
But then, at his final interview and to his dismay, the instructors had decided that they wanted him behind a desk. He had scored very highly on the leadership and aptitude tests and they said his talents would be wasted undercover in some foreign country. Instead, they had offered him a well-paid job in London in charge of a small team, and he’d had to adjust his thinking, determined to make the most of the opportunity given to him.
He'd been born and bred in Staunton, Virginia and found after he’d arrived in London in late-February 1999, that the weather in the UK was comparable and not such a shock to his system as it might otherwise have been. During his time here, he'd seen agents arrive on postings from Florida or California, and the frequently grey and gloomy weather had been a nasty surprise for them. He’d been one of the few students in his class in high school who'd enjoyed learning about British history, about their Kings and Queens, how their parliamentary system had evolved and the great battles they'd fought, such as Agincourt, Trafalgar and Waterloo. When the opportunity had arisen, he was excited to both begin his career in the CIA and come to live London and experience their culture firsthand. America was such a comparatively modern place that he had grown to love living here, absorbing the history around him. He'd spent many a weekend going to the old churches and cathedrals scattered across the city, buildings older than any in his home country. Just last weekend he'd been eating lunch in a pub that was built in the 15th Century. A pub that was older than the formation of his nation. Even now, that sort of thing still blew his mind.
And aside from the history of the place, he'd found the lifestyle agreed with him too. Over the years several promotions had given him a substantial increase in salary over his peers and an apartment paid for by the Agency, both of which allowed him to live well in an expensive city. Physically most guys his age and position on the ladder had started to soften around the midsection, but he was thirty-nine years old and still looked fifteen years younger, having avoided cigarettes and excess caffeine his entire life, diligently maintaining the prodigious fitness he’d had back at The Farm all those years before.
In all, life was pretty good. He’d spent the last fifteen years trying to help others and his country, and felt as if he had done a pretty decent job. He’d never harmed or killed anyone, and in his position as an Operations Officer he was one of the best guys around doing what he did. He had a six man team under his command in this building and a further six agents scattered across Europe whom only a select few knew worked for both him and therefore the CIA. The information his team had gathered over the past few years had proved invaluable to the United States Government, and they were a crucial part of the Agency’s European intelligence gathering.
In a large and extremely powerful organisation, the man approaching the entrance to the Embassy had built a solid reputation for himself as a good leader and valuable employee. He'd worked his ass off to get where he was, with a silent determination that a lot of his peers often didn't understand. At this point, he knew if he played his cards right he could be looking at another solid promotion and a position of increased power, one he could perhaps use as a springboard to higher things or just as a smooth ride to retirement. If he didn’t get promoted he was planning to hand in a transfer request and head back to Virginia in the next couple of years anyway, maybe take over running a team at the headquarters there. However, for now, he was happy with his job and his life in London. He felt as if he was doing a good thing here, something worthwhile, and for the moment he was content to keep right on doing it.
Walking up the path to the main entrance, the man pulled open the door and moved inside the building. The woman behind the front desk recognised him, giving him a nod and a smile as she talked into a phone. Members of the public applying for visas were directed to the large waiting room on the left, herded in and told to wait until it was their turn. The CIA agent headed to the right instead.
Walking down the corridor, he passed through another metal detector and x-ray machine, and passing a final handprint and retina scan, a thick door in front of him buzzed and clicked open. He pushed it and walked into the heart of the CIA substation, heading towards his office. The hallway was cream-walled with blue carpet, two thirds patriotic, only missing the red. However, the CIA seal printed sequentially on the carpet compensated for that omission, the compass rose on the shield below the bald eagle as red as the United States of America writing on the golden scroll below. The man passed a number of familiar offices on the way, including a tech area where a number of analysts and intelligence officers were already working away at computers. He kept moving down the corridor, and eventually arrived at his own office, pushing open the door and moving inside.
Walking to his desk, he placed his briefcase to one side and grabbed the remote to a television mounted on the wall across the room. He pushed the power button and flicked it on.
He always liked to catch a brief summary of the headlines when he walked in, updating him on the most important and pressing situations taking place around the world. Although the television had a range of channels, including CNN and the Fox Newsroom, the American liked to keep it on BBC World. Out of the three choices, that was the one he preferred. The reports were unbiased and gave him a cliff-notes version of everything he needed to know at the start of the day. CNN and Fox were fantastic broadcasters, but even their own network heads would probably admit that most of their focus was geared towards events in the United States. Considering Jackson’s job, he needed to know straight away of any crises in Europe, and BBC World could be relied upon to summarise the most important events. Many times in the past, his assistant had walked into the office handing over a first-hand detailed report from an agent who had been directly involved in something that was just coming up on the screen.
As he took a seat behind his desk, his assistant knocked on the door and entered. He’d left it open knowing she would.
She was a few years older than he was, a woman called Lynn, who was also from Virginia, not far from his hometown, Staunton. She’d been his assistant for almost three years, and they had a good working relationship, sharing a pleasant degree of mutual respect. She didn't take shit from anyone, no matter what their rank or position, an attitude that had definitely not helped her career. However, she and her boss had developed a good rapport. He always made a point to treat her with respect and courtesy and he knew that she appreciated it and subsequently did the same for him.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said.
‘Morning, Lynn. How are you?’
'Very well, sir. Yourself?'
'Good, thanks.'
He watched the screen as a report came up, a black headline on a yellow banner, rolling onto the screen. Breaking News: Political candidate Charlie Adams commits suicide on South Bank early this morning. The CIA agent read the headline and a light-bulb faintly flickered at the back of his mind, like one turned on in a dusty cellar or basement in a house that had been abandoned for years, given a spark of electricity but struggling for full power.
Charlie Adams.
That name rang a bell.
It was familiar yet distant, tantalisingly out of reach.
Where had he heard it before?
‘Charlie Adams,’ he said to himself, out loud, watching the screen. He looked over at his assistant. ‘You heard that name before, Lynn?’
‘Only on the occasional news report, sir,' she said. 'Apparently he was a pretty big deal in British politics. People were comparing him to President Obama. Real up-and-comer.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Put a revolver in his mouth and ate a bullet.’
The man behind the desk frowned, thinking.
‘OK. Anything for me this morning?’
‘Nothing pressing, sir. But don't forget, you have a twelve o'clock with the Syrian ambassador. It's at a private conference room across town. I've arranged transport so you won't have to drive.’
‘That's right. OK. Thanks, Lynn.’
She nodded to her boss and left, shutting the door behind her.
After she was gone and he was alone, the CIA agent continued to watch the screen, wracking his brains for any further recollection of that name. Charlie Adams, he thought, repeating the name to himself over and over in his head, trying to stir up some recollection. It felt significant somehow, like he should have remembered who the guy was.
Charlie Adams.
Where do I know you from, man?
Across London, another man was watching that same news report.
He was sitting in the dark, and he was alone. Across the wide room to his right, a series of weapons were lined up neatly against the wall. There were six Kalashnikov AK-47 rifles with a stack of spare magazines, each one fully loaded, taped back-to-back in pairs for ease of reloading once the top one was empty. Alongside them were four MP5 SD3s, silenced sub-machine guns, and a stack of spare clips loaded with 9 millimetre Parabellum bullets. There was also a bazooka with spare ammunition in a black equipment case. And finally a Russian Dragunov sniper rifle, unloaded, which used the same ammunition as the Kalashnikovs.
The weapons had all been bought down at the Docklands illegally three days ago, cash in hand, sufficient threats made to the men who had sold them, warning them in explicit detail what would happen if they ever said a word about the transactions to another soul. Syringes and tourniquets would be used, and a power saw. The message was received loud and clear. No one would ever know about the trade. The serial numbers on all the weapons had already been removed with acid, rendering them pretty much untraceable, and the man in the room had stripped apart, cleaned, oiled and reassembled each weapon, wearing gloves to avoid leaving any fingerprints.
The figure was sitting in front of a desk with a series of televisions on the desktop in front of him, one tuned to BBC World, the other to the CNN Breaking Newsroom. The sound on both screens was off, but the footage was what mattered.
On the left, the BBC channel, the screen was still showing the Breaking News banner headline of the politician's suicide. To the right, CNN, a Breaking News report had just come in of a man found strangled in a parking lot in a Washington DC suburb. On the table beside the screens, there was a list of names on a pad of A4 paper, eleven in all, one beneath the other, written neatly in a line down the left margin of the page.
Charlie Adams was near the top.
The man reached forward and took a pen in his large hand. He drew a line through the two words.
Adams was gone.
He moved his finger down the list slowly and drew a line through another name, the doorman strangled outside the strip-club in DC. The large man had received a phone call from JFK International Airport earlier confirming the death of the bodyguard in the New York City apartment, but he was still waiting for the television to report it before he put his pen through a name. Not that he didn’t trust his man, but he’d learned long ago that a man wasn’t dead until you saw his corpse. He was living proof of that. He wanted to see a body-bag on a gurney on the television before he drew a line through anything. His two men were already in the air, on their way across the Atlantic from the American East Coast, using the best counterfeit passports and identification money could buy. Passing through security and immigration would not be a problem. They would be here in the room beside him within the next eight hours.
In the darkness, the big man lifted the pen off the page and looked down at the list. With one of them killed in Iraq years ago by a truck-bomb, that was three confirmed down. Three for three. One hundred per cent success. The perfect start.
Which left eight to go.
He flicked his gaze to the next name on the list. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a mobile phone and pushed Redial, lifting it to his ear. The call was answered before the second ring.
‘Sir?’ a voice said, down the line.
‘Are you in position?’ the man asked quietly, in a foreign language. His voice was deep and low.
‘Yes, sir. We're here.’
‘The package will arrive soon,' the man said, checking a watch on his wrist, still talking in the foreign tongue. 'You know what to do. Kill whoever you have to if they get in the way. But make sure you shoot him in the head. No mistakes.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Without another word, the man ended the call. At the same moment, the CNN screen popped up with a new headline, appearing on the banner under the male newsreader's face. It joined the other report of the man found strangled on the looping news-feed, the reports streaming along the bottom of the screen one after the other, vice-versa.
Breaking News: Man found shot dead in New York City apartment.
The screen flicked to a gathering of news-vans and an ambulance outside a Manhattan building, the time still early in the morning there, the sun just starting to come up in the distance. He saw the doors open and a black body bag wheeled out on the trolley, moving down the steps and headed towards the open doors at the rear of the ambulance. The big man’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction. He picked up the pen and drew a line through the dead man's name. Four down.
Seven to go.