The Insider Threat (34 page)

C
hristine Spalding dropped her carry-on suitcase and flopped on the bed, exhausted from trying to find her way in a foreign country. The farthest she’d ever traveled was to Washington, DC, as a child, and the adventurous excitement of flying to Venice had fallen away, leaving the grimy smear of trying to work her way through train stops and foreigners who wanted nothing more than to pick her pocket. Or worse.

The decision to purchase a train ticket to Rome had been a monumental one, fraught with unknowns, not the least of which were Chris’s actions to begin with. She had a paid ticket to the United States, courtesy of him, and would have used it, if only he’d bothered to say good-bye. She knew what she was, and had no illusions about her role in Chris’s life—even as she fantasized otherwise—but his dropping her cold before any consummation of the relationship just seemed weird. Downright odd.

She’d decided to follow him. She knew it would be against his wishes, but, Lord, she’d flown all the way to Italy because he’d asked. The least she was owed was an explanation. She didn’t care if the excuse was the wife, the church, or a simple illness, as the email stated. She just wanted some closure. After the enormous effort she’d put into getting here—vacation time off from work, buying clothes, the emotional distress of figuring out a foreign country—she deserved to know.

She lay on the bed, pondering her next move. She knew the hotel he was using, and could call it directly. If she could figure out how to make a damn call in Italy. Truthfully, she didn’t have the energy to sort through the dialing procedures, talking to people who didn’t speak English, and even if she had, she wanted to make the call from his lobby. Where he couldn’t say no. Where he’d have to at least face her. She knew he had the ceremony tomorrow, and would probably be busy, but she was at least owed a face-to-face from the coward.

She’d already mapped the hotel, and it was only about a half mile away, across the Tiber River near Vatican City. She’d found herself a cheap boutique hotel right near the Spanish Steps and the best shopping in Rome. Proud of her use of the Internet, learning how to operate in a country foreign to everything she’d known, she was gaining confidence.

She decided to walk to his hotel, going through the shopping district on the way. It was late in the afternoon, but the stores would be open. It would give her time to decide on what she was going to say. How she was going to take the rejection, which she knew was coming.

She sat up and popped the top on a bottle of water, knowing she’d end up paying for it. This hotel was on her dime—her credit card—but she didn’t mind. She was seeing the world, with or without Chris.

She stood up, looking at herself in the mirror and wondering if it was something she’d done, when her hotel phone rang, startling her.

She answered.

“Yes, this is room service. We’ve been to your door twice, and nobody answers. Do you wish the dinner you ordered?”

“I didn’t order any food. I just got here.”

“Is this room three forty-two? Gustavos Bittering?”

“No. I’m in room four nineteen. It wasn’t me.”

“So sorry, madame. Forgive the intrusion.”

She hung up the phone, happy that the man on the other end at least spoke English with an accent she could understand. She stood up, putting on her scarf.

*   *   *

Jacob disconnected his cell and said, “Room four nineteen. We should go right now. Take her in the hotel.”

Omar leaned back and said, “I’m not sure. What can she do before the ceremony? I’m thinking we let her run amok. Trying to kill her now may be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“That’s a mistake. She’s determined, and she’s not an idiot. I think she smells something wrong. If she confirms it, she’s going to raise an alarm, and we’ll show up tomorrow to an arrest.”

Omar said, “But that would be better than being a
shahid
, no?”

Jacob smiled at the insult from their earlier conversation and said, “Same as you. Same as you.”

On the train, an hour out of Rome, Jacob’s new phone had rung, and Omar had demanded he provide the passport information from Fart Boy, the kid he’d killed and assumed the identity of. He’d given it, then provided Omar the rundown of his fears with the woman. Jacob heard the suspicion in Omar’s voice, but had no time for it. He agreed to call when he arrived, and hung up. He spent the rest of the train ride alternately thinking of his future and the mission. Deciding what he would demand from Omar.

After they’d arrived in Rome, he’d exited the train rapidly, before the woman could identify him, and waited. She’d finally appeared, clearly lost. He’d followed her back and forth, aimlessly wandering about looking for an exit, then eventually out of the train station, getting into the cab line right behind her. When his cabby had asked, “Where to?” he’d actually uttered the most trite thing imaginable. “Follow that cab.”

He’d identified where she was staying, then had the cab drop him off in Trastevere. Not wanting anyone to be able to reconstruct his movements, he exited four blocks away from the safe house, paying the cab with Chris Fulbright’s credit card. He’d found a pub called the Mate Bar just outside of the American John Cabot University and called Omar.

Omar had arrived with a small duffel bag and a large amount of hostility. Jacob had explained where they stood. The risk of the woman, but more than that, he told Omar the thoughts that had been plaguing his mind. Where his dedication lay. What he wanted.

Omar had opened up the duffel and showed the hilt of a sawed-off shotgun. He’d said, “Remember what we talked about in Istanbul. The attack is tomorrow. You are with the Islamic State, or not. Are you with me?”

Jacob had said, “I am with you. With
you
. I will not be a
shahid
. My life is worth more than that. Just as yours is. You can send Devon and Carlos to their deaths, and they’ll do it willingly. I will not.”

Omar had leaned back, saying, “What does that mean,
with
me?”

“It means I’m better than the others. I’m not cannon fodder. You know it. You told me that very thing. I want to work for you. I want to be your second in command. We’ll do the mission tomorrow, and we’ll succeed, but I won’t be the man killing the target. I’ll control it, and I’ll get out, just like you. From there, we’ll take the fight to whomever you want.”

He’d seen Omar’s face cloud, and wondered if he’d pushed too far. But he didn’t really care. He’d made his decision. He was better than a
shahid
, and all that mattered was whether Omar agreed. If he didn’t, they’d wrestle for the shotgun. If he did, they’d move forward.

He’d waited. Omar had tapped his fingers on the table, his cobalt eyes on Jacob. Finally, he’d said, “You wish to move into leadership of the Islamic State? You, who have never shown any allegiance to Islam?”

“No. I wish to work under you, and you alone. If it supports the Islamic State, so be it. Religion means little to me. It’s just a method for people to justify their actions, which is why I have no trouble killing the Christian tomorrow. I’ve seen what he causes.”

Omar had studied him, then said, “We’ll take this one step at a time. You won’t have to martyr yourself tomorrow, but it’s not for the reasons you state. I can’t guarantee you can get in, so I’ve already thought about altering the plan. Devon and Carlos have confirmed seats, and are rehearsing with the explosives right now, but because we didn’t have your passport, because you were on this chase after the female, we may not get you cleared for security. We’ll find out tomorrow.”

“If I hadn’t, the only thing promised to Devon and Carlos would be handcuffs when they show up. She needs to be killed.”

“But we lose the propaganda. Carlos and Devon were going to eliminate his personal security, giving you space for your speech prior to the final explosion. Now it’ll have to be quick, and the speech will be done on the Internet, after the fact, competing with others wanting credit.”

“It can’t be helped. I didn’t make the woman up. And there are ways to ensure they know who did the attack. Evidence we can leave. You and I.”

“Do you even know her room?”

Jacob had picked up his cell phone, saying, “I will shortly.”

S
itting with Jennifer and Brett outside of the hotel, I waited for the cell to connect. After three rings, I heard Shoshana say, “Well, that didn’t take too long. Did you miss me?”

She sounded nonchalant, but I knew she’d been waiting. She’d probably been sitting in a hotel room staring at her phone, begging it to ring.

I said, “I’ve had a little downsizing to my team. I had to leave Knuckles and Retro in Venice, and I could use some additional muscle here in Rome.”

“That sounds interesting. Does it involve the busty woman?”

I laughed. “Exactly. I have her room, and I could use a female touch. Meet me at the outdoor café on Via Veneto. Right outside the Hotel Imperiale.”

She said she was five minutes away, and hung up. I turned to Jennifer, “I want you and Shoshana to talk to her. Be nice—you know, girl talk. I don’t think she’s involved in whatever the Lost Boys are up to, but she’s tied somehow. There’s way too much smoke around her.”

We’d landed a little over an hour ago, and, because we were leaving a huge trail flying all over the place without a whole lot of justification for Grolier Recovery Services, I’d asked Kurt for the use of a safe house instead of checking into another hotel.

We had them in every major city, rented from about four hundred different cutouts, but we rarely occupied them. A safe house was supposed to be just that: safe. If you used it every two weeks, you tended to draw attention to it, and risked compromise. In this case, I deemed our heat state from flying all over the world a justifiable reason not to splash our names into yet another hotel registry.

He’d agreed, and gave us a sweet two-story flat located in the north of the city in Municipio III, about two miles north of the old Urbe airport, a general aviation facility that made it pretty convenient for the rock-star bird. Even better, the house came with a dented four-door Fiat clown car in a roll-up garage.

No sooner had we moved our luggage in than Kurt had called, saying that Christine had used her credit card to check into the Hotel Imperiale. The strange thing was she’d used
her
card. Not the pay-as-you-go card. Stranger still, the pay-as-you-go card had
also
been used, once at a store in Venice, and today at a cab company—in Rome. Kurt was running down what the other purchase was for, but the Rome connection was enough smoke to get everyone’s blood pumping. Now I hoped Jennifer and Shoshana could find the fire.

Jennifer said, “What if she doesn’t want to talk?”

“If she stonewalls, go good cop/bad cop on her. Shoshana will have no trouble being the bad cop. If she really clams up, give us a shout. Brett and I will be right here for some extra intimidation. Either way, we’re getting something out of her.”

Brett said, “I see the little killer coming.”

The café we were in was a literal glass house built right on the sidewalk, allowing anyone to stop and stare as you ate your food. I don’t know who thought that was a great idea, but it allowed me to turn around and see Aaron and Shoshana walking past the metro station to the south, headed our way. They came abreast and I tapped on the glass, letting them see us.

They came inside, with Aaron saying, “Shoshana told me on the train you’d call. I didn’t believe her.”

“Well, I hadn’t planned on it, but circumstances with my higher command forced me to make a choice, and I figured Shoshana here would want a crack at the target. Get her off Jennifer.”

I glanced at her, proud of my jab, only to find her ignoring me, staring intently out the window instead.

I heard Jennifer say, “Pike, the target just walked out of the hotel. She’s headed north.”

I whipped my head around and saw Christine strolling up the street, carrying a large purse and looking like every other tourist out for an evening walk.

“Shit. Okay, okay, we follow her to see what she’s up to. If she’s just wandering around, seeing the sights, Jennifer and Shoshana will interdict on her line of march.”

Jennifer nodded, and I looked at Shoshana for confirmation. She was still staring out the window, and I saw the dark angel appear. In the span of an instant she went from smiling to radiating so much violence it was like feeling heat from a bonfire.

I followed her gaze, confused as to why Christine would provoke such a response, and then saw the engine driving her rage. Omar al-Khatami and the Lost Boy Jacob were on the street. And they were following Christine.

*   *   *

Walking up the avenue, tourist map in hand, Christine ran through her head what she was going to say to Chris on the phone, trying to develop an answer for every conceivable way he could try to avoid coming to the hotel lobby. She wasn’t leaving until she had her face-to-face. She was owed that, even if his answer was a blunt
Go away
.

She’d even considered threatening him with exposure, but she quickly discarded that idea. It wasn’t in her to be vindictive, and she knew she was just as culpable as he was. There was no way she could bring herself to expose their illicit relationship—especially since it had never been officially consummated.

And that was the ugly elephant in the room. Chris had paid for her to fly all the way to Italy, and she’d known all along there was a price. She was willing to pay it, in fact was looking forward to it, and then Chris had disappeared with nothing more than an email. It wasn’t like him, and, as much as she was afraid of rejection, she was secretly petrified that something was terribly wrong.

She reached the top of the famed Spanish Steps, the dying sunlight illuminating a mass of people in the square below, vendors scurrying among the crowd hawking flowers and chances to use a selfie stick. She paused, taking in the scene and wishing she had a camera.

She looked at her map, planning her route to Chris’s hotel through the shopping district beyond the square. She pinpointed her location, then went down the steps, trying to ignore the aggressive sales techniques. She reached the bottom and was literally cornered by two young men trying to sell her flowers, or maybe trying to get something else.

Mildly alarmed, she stuck her hand in her purse, saying, “No, no, no,” while she fished for her small bottle of pepper spray. She eventually convinced them, and they let her go on her way, but she kept her hand in her purse.

She walked down the first street she found, lined with high-end stores selling things she could never afford, but that wouldn’t stop her from looking.