The Black List (16 page)

“No. I’m concerned you’re not thinking things through. Someone’s bound to start wondering at the short life-expectancy of A
.
D
.
E. employees and their families.”

“Random acts. They happen.”

“Not to people working in the same company.”

“Your concern is touching, but you’ll find that once we recover the book, poor distraught Trip, who was fired not once but twice from the same company, will end up taking his own life out of guilt for killing his brother-in-law.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re insane. The police will never believe that.”

“They already do. A few well-placed witnesses were
very
helpful to the police investigation, and the shooter certainly matches his description.”

“And what if Trip doesn’t produce the book?”

“He has two days or we kill his sister and niece once we find them. So you see, Miss Sanders, he’s going to die anyway. The question is who he intends to take with him?”

Eve wasn’t sure what she could possibly say to that. What might cement her position or make it worse. She opted for the positive. “It seems you’ve thought of everything.”

“Oh. We have. I only hope no one got too good a look at the woman who stole his briefcase.”

His smile left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. He’d serve her up to the police in a heartbeat just as easily as kill her and toss her out with the trash. She knew, however, that any sign of weakness would be a grave misstep, and so she smiled right back at him. “We can only hope.”

26

Tex’s phone rang about
five minutes after he got back to the safe house. The number on his caller ID showed the phone they’d followed to the hotel on their arrival to London. Eve. “Hello?”

“You may believe you know what you saw. It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?” Tex asked.

“I can’t talk right now, I’m being watched. But if you’ll meet with me after Micah’s program tonight, I can explain everything.”

“I’ve already had one person shove a gun in my side in your presence, and a man killed right in front of me. Not sure if I’m liking those odds.”

“I didn’t do it. Please . . . just meet with me.”

“Tell you what. I’ll think about it.”

He hung up on her, picturing that moment in his mind’s eye when she’d looked at him, Marty’s briefcase in her bloody hand right before she fled . . .

Donovan walked in then, and Tex told him about the call.

“And what? We hallucinated the whole thing?”

“I’m still trying to figure her out.”

“I take it the book was in the briefcase she took?” Donovan asked. He was rolling up his sleeve to examine his elbow.

“I can’t believe I let her get it. When it hit me what I’d done . . .”

“The guy had a gun. On me. You did the right thing.”

Tex grinned. “Some might say that was debatable.”

“So what’s with the teddy bear?”

“I sort of promised the guy I’d take it to his daughter, Emmie.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Found his ID. We can arrange to have one of the locals drop it off. Maybe after the notification’s made.” Because he sure as hell didn’t want to have to tell some little girl her father was dead. Or the wife, either.

Donovan craned his neck trying to see his elbow. “What do ya think? Bandage or not?”

“Butch up. It’s barely a scrape.”

“It’s bleeding.”

“A mosquito would starve on that. Air it out.”

Donovan rolled his sleeve down. “The guy tell you anything else before he was shot?”

“Not a lot. He said he was being followed, but before he told me what that was about, he said I had to protect his wife and daughter, then something about something happening to someone named Byron. Oh, and something about it was well-hidden in a Kipling story. I’m guessing this is the book everyone’s after.”

“Kipling?”

“Special annotated version or something.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Tex said, taking a seat at the table and picking up the newspaper he hadn’t had a chance to read yet. “And then he was shot. Hence the promise to get the teddy bear to his daughter.”

Donovan eyed the bag.

“Trust me,” Tex said. “Nothing’s in there. I already looked. It’s just a kid’s toy.”

“Which makes you wonder what the hell’s hidden in this book.”

“Got me,” he said, unfolding the paper and shaking it out on the table, eyeing the front page.

“Sandwich?”

“Shit.”

“I was thinking more like roast beef.”

“No. This. Look.”

He pointed to the headline that read
MURDER-SUICIDE IN QUEEN’S PARK HOME.
“We were wondering what prompted this guy to call us? Here you go.”

Donovan leaned over the table, read the article. “Byron? That’s the name Marty mentioned?”

“That’s it. Entire family. Murder-suicide. I’m guessing Marty thought otherwise.”

They both turned, eyed the teddy bear.

“Shit, is right,” Donovan said. “If Eve just called wanting to meet, I’m guessing the book
isn’t
in the briefcase, and they’re
still
looking for it. We’ve got to find his kid and his wife before they do.”

Trip lay on
the floor in a dark room, his hands tied behind his back, his feet bound together. He wasn’t sure what time of day it was. He’d drifted to sleep during the night off and on, startling awake whenever someone entered the room. The door opened and bright light spilled in, blinding him, and he didn’t see the boot coming at him until it struck his gut.

“Get up!”

The blow knocked the breath out of him, but he attempted to pull his knees to his chest, trying to sit. It took a few tries but he did it.

“On your feet, you idiot.”

“I can’t.”

And the man reached down, yanked him by his arm to his feet, then shoved him in a chair. It was Willis, he realized. One of Barclay’s men. Trip shifted so his wrists weren’t pressing against the wooden back. “Where am I?”

“Shut up. Now where’s the bloody book?”

They hadn’t found it . . . Was it possible Byron hadn’t given Marty up? “I told you it’s safe. Hidden. And if anything happens to me, it goes public.”

“That right? Funny, seeing as how Byron said otherwise, right before we killed him. Said you were lying, and your brother-in-law? The one you blame for getting you fired? Byron said he’s got it.”

“I told you, Marty doesn’t have it!”

“Yeah. We figured that out when we killed him, dumbass.”

“Marty’s dead?”

“Just like your sister and her kid are gonna be if you don’t cooperate.”

Trip’s throat closed. It was several seconds before he could even breathe, move. And then an anger like he’d never known surged through him. “You bloody well better leave them alone!”

“Didn’t think we cared about them, did ya? Tell ya what. You cooperate, they live.” He reached out, grabbed Trip by the scruff of his collar and put his face so close that Trip could smell the tobacco on his breath. “So I’m gonna ask you again, and listen real careful like. Where’s . . . the . . . book?”

Trip stared at the man’s mouth, saw it moving as he spoke, tried to think. What had Marty done? Was it possible they’d all been pawns? All because of Marty? Or was this Byron’s doing? He tried to go over the conversation with Byron last night. Had he missed something? Byron said Marty had it. Where the hell was it?

“Well?” He shook Trip until his head jerked back.

“I’ll take it from here.”

Trip looked over.
Eve?
How long had she been standing there? “What’s going on?”

“Leave us!” she ordered.

Willis stood fast, holding Trip’s collar.

“I said leave!”

He hesitated a second, let go, then stalked out the door, the light temporarily blinding Trip as he tried to look out, see where he was.

The door slammed closed and he turned his attention to Eve. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

She walked up to him, leaned over, put her face close to his, whispering, “You need to listen
very
carefully. I don’t think they have your sister or niece yet, but it’s only a matter of time. You heard what happened to Byron and his family? To your brother-in-law? It’s important I find them first. Do you have
any
idea where your sister might be?”

He shook his head.

“Trip, you have to trust me. I can’t help you or them if you don’t cooperate. Where’s the book?”

“I swear, I don’t know,” he said, not believing her for an instant.

She sighed, then stood up straight. “Trip, you know if they find that book first, your life, their lives, aren’t worth a damn. The sooner you get me that book, the sooner I can help you.”

“I—I just need time.”

“How long?”

“Two days, three days, maybe?”

“I’ll try to hold them off.” She pulled a knife from her pocket, opened it, and sliced the rope at Trip’s wrists. “You have my number.”

She walked out, slammed the door, leaving Trip alone in the dark once more. It took him about two seconds to come to his senses. He bent down, loosened the knot at his feet, then stood, walked to the door and put his ear to it, listening. Hearing nothing that sounded threatening, he opened it, looking out into a dank alley in a part of town where it wouldn’t have mattered if he had screamed all night. No one would care. No one would come.

And how was that different from now? From this illusion of freedom he had as he hurried down the narrow alley to the street beyond? He ignored the stares from the few individuals who lingered in the shadows, as though they were sizing him up as a potential victim. But if any of the rat-faced men who stood in the dark corners thought about moving in his direction, they backed off with one look from him. He would fight to the death rather than jeopardize his sister and niece, and it must have shown on his face.

Now all he had to do was figure out where Marty hid the damned book.

27

“Are you busy?”

Sydney was surprised to hear Griffin’s voice on the other end of her phone. She expected that once Tex and Carillo had left for England, Griffin would have little official reason to contact her—which is not to say she didn’t want him to. “Not at the moment. Why?”

“I need to talk. I’d rather not relay it over the phone.”

“It’s not—”

“Carillo’s fine. With Tex.” She breathed a sigh of relief as he added, “Where can we meet?”

“Your office is fine. I’m just leaving my apartment.”

“See you in a few.”

Traffic was the usual stop and go at the morning hour, and it took Sydney about a half hour. Unlike her last visit, the man who’d barred her way yesterday greeted her, saying, “Mr. Griffin’s expecting you upstairs.”

“Thank you.”

Griffin was waiting for her in his office, along with Director McNiel.

McNiel stood, shook her hand, saying, “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise.”

But instead of taking a seat when she did, he said, “I’ll leave you two at it,” then left the room.

She found herself staring at the closed door, before forcing her gaze back to Griffin, when she realized he was speaking.

“I need someone with clearance and law enforcement powers to work some reconnaissance with me on the local level. We don’t currently have an ATLAS member with those qualifications.”

“Clearly a government oversight.”

“Since the current administration is not going to fix it anytime soon . . .”

“This is that overlapping investigation you were telling me about last night?”

“It is. We received word that a terrorist might be trying to come into the country, possibly through the refugee resettlement program.”

“Trip’s program? This Sticks and Bricks thing?”

“We don’t know. It could be a completely separate criminal enterprise taking advantage of an inherently flawed system. Whatever this hornet’s nest is that Sheila’s boyfriend stirred up may or may not be part of it. But we’d be foolish not to investigate further.”

“Does Carillo know?”

“He does now.”

“Pearson, or someone from foreign counterintelligence?”

“Pearson’s the one who informed us of the terrorist connection. He’s forwarded a number of suspicious circumstances reports from your office that we’re going to need to follow up on, which made me realize you would be an asset to the investigation. He suggested your name, but I wanted to ask you before I finalized anything.”

“There’s a first.”

He gave a half smile, as though to acknowledge that his agency had circumvented the normal channels in the past. He did not, however, comment, apparently waiting for her response on whether she was willing to work alongside him.

And that was a big question. They seemed to finally be at the beginning of an actual two-way relationship. Sure, it was more expedient to bring an agent on board who already knew ATLAS existed and what most of their protocols were, but what if they actually ended up sleeping together? “Are you okay with this?” she asked.

“I’ve worked with you before.”

“Not that part . . .” She let it hang there, since the door was still wide-open.

He glanced toward the doorway, then back at her. “You mean the part we almost but haven’t
quite
made it to?”

“Yes.”

“If we ever
get
to that part, I’ll let you know. So how about it? I need to call Pearson.”

“Forget Pearson. Why wouldn’t we get to that part? And if we do, is there some reason it would change your mind about working with me?”

He picked up a pen from his desk, clicking it open, closed, over and over, seemingly unaware he was even doing it. “I feel protective toward you. I don’t want the same thing that happened to Becca—”

Of course. His late wife. “I’m not her. And the feeling of wanting to protect the people you care about? It’s never going to go away.”

“I know that. Now. So I learn to work with it instead of against it.”

Sydney made a show of looking at her watch. “I have a few errands to run. Let me know what Pearson says.”