No Way Out, page 14
“Paxton. I want to have a talk with Gavin Paxton.”
Reid sighed. “Fine. Take her to see our friendly curator. But please, do me a favor. In the remotest of chances that he is involved in this—and I really only say this to stroke your ego—because there’s no way in hell that he is—handle him with care. Be smart about it. We don’t want him heading out of the UK on the next train. We good on that?”
“We’re good.”
AS THEY ASCENDED the stairs en route to the gallery, Vail’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out but did not recognize the number.
“I’ll meet you in there,” Losner said.
She nodded okay as she brought the handset to her ear. “Vail.”
“Karen, it’s Hector. We need to meet. I’ve got some important info for you that I can’t discuss over the phone. Do you know the Caffé Nero in Piccadilly Circus?”
“Do I know it? I’ve been in London a handful of days in my entire life. What do you think?”
“You’re still angry with me.”
“A bit.”
“Fair enough. Pick up the tube at Bond Street station and get off at Piccadilly Circus. The café’s a block away, on Piccadilly. Big blue sign, next to Cotswold Outdoor. I’m at a table against the wall. See you in about twenty.”
As she headed back outside, she texted Losner that she had an errand to run. Five minutes after getting directions to the station, she was swiping her Oyster card and moving down the long corridor filled with large billboards advertising Hollywood films.
She was bumped from behind, and then she felt a sharp prick in her neck. Her vision instantly distorted into a myopic tunnel.
A second later, everything faded to black.
19
Her neck hurt. That was the first thought Vail had as her consciousness started to return—slowly at first, then in increasingly rapid increments as she began to regain her senses: vision, then smell, then hearing.
There was darkness all around her, save for a pin of light near the ceiling. A dank, damp, mildew-like odor tickled her nostrils. Off in the distance, footsteps.
Where am I? What happened? I was going to meet Hector.
She tried to shift her weight and realized that her limbs were encased in ringlets of iron. A broader band encircled her torso, and her arms were pinned against her sides, their movement restricted by the thin metal bars.
Oh God, I’m in some kind of cage.
Anxiety overcame her in that instant, sweat soaking her shirt, the need to move overwhelming. Something as mundane as stretching out her arms—a motion she did a thousand times a day—was now something she had to do—needed to do. She forced them away from her body, scraping her skin against the rough metal bars. I can’t, I have to get out. She felt panic rising in her throat—
But she stopped herself. She willed her arms to relax, her breathing to slow. Claustrophobia was not her enemy; whoever did this to her, however, was—and she needed to regain her wits to think clearly, to figure out where she was, and why. She needed to conserve her energy and find a way out of this.
As clarity returned to her thoughts, she realized she was suspended above the ground. How far, she did not know…but her metal coffin was swaying, pivoting from an attachment above her head. She found the pin of light again and followed it, trying to locate the boundaries of her chamber. It appeared that she was in a dungeon of some sort, and—judging by the limestone growths on what appeared to be cement block walls, uneven mortar extruding its joints—it was one of considerable age.
The scratch of tiny feet below told her that she had company—rodents of some sort.
She moved her head and her lips touched the metal encircling her face. It tasted like iron—rusted iron.
The loud clomp of heavy shoes echoed; there was a hallway or tunnel of some sort off to her right. Three—no, four—men were coming.
Let them come. I want answers!
When they got closer, she yelled into the darkness, “Who are you?”
Silence, except for the continuing footsteps. Seconds later, they stopped. They were below her, meaning she was at least several feet off the ground.
Breathing.
Finally, one spoke:
Arabic?
“We are with al-Humat,” another translated. “You know who we are.”
A statement, not a question.
Beyond the regular FBI terrorist briefings, Vail knew of al-Humat because of what one of them had done to her friend Uzi.
“Yeah. I know who you are. What do you want with me?”
Vail knew the question was pointless. Whatever the reason, it was a violent group known for doing bad things to those it considered enemies—basically anyone who did not share its beliefs. Infidels.
A captor lit a match. In the flickering light, Vail glimpsed her prison—a tall, narrow dungeon. Three other rusted metal devices hung from the ceiling, all of various sizes. One looked like it had once been used to stretch a body between two rolling pins utilizing a crank.
The match burned out and she was again lost in darkness. Suddenly she felt a jerk and her body was lowered toward the floor. It was disorienting, moving downward but not being able to see where she was going.
Her bare feet slapped the cold dirt.
A painfully bright halogen light was turned on, blinding her vision and blowing out her rods and cones.
More Arabic—but no translation this time. She realized they were using interrogation techniques well established in western law enforcement and military training: deprive your subject of her senses, disorient her, keep her guessing, speak in ways she could not understand, control her, provide personal information about her to give her a sense of invasion. In short, break her down, freak her out.
The light went off.
Thirty seconds later, the glimmer of another match revealed three men in black hoods. Fighting to see through her damaged visual field—which needed several more minutes to recover—she saw that one held a video camera, his comrade an AK-47 assault rifle.
More footsteps clomped down the adjacent hall as two of the kidnappers unlocked her from her iron prison. They pulled her out roughly and knocked her legs out from under her. The match again burned out.
Darkness.
C’mon, Karen. Fight! Fight!
She swung her arms and sliced through air, twisting her torso but striking nothing of significance.
A large, slick hand grabbed the back of her neck and forced her face down into what felt like a tree stump. She struck it hard and immediately tasted blood in her mouth.
The man holding the camcorder turned on the bright light again and settled the camera on his shoulder, aimed at Vail. The red “record” LED started blinking above the lens.
Another captor grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. He shoved a sheet of paper into her hands.
“Read this.”
She squinted at the document, trying to focus and use her peripheral vision to make out the words. It was a confession for America’s transgressions—the typical treatise captives were forced to read prior to…decapitation.
“I’m not reading that,” she said.
“Read it!” the man said, louder.
Don’t give in. Show strength. Don’t let them win. They’re just trying to scare you.
She looked down again at the paper and scanned the bullshit babble—until she reached a paragraph that made her glance up at the masked man holding the document. The text mentioned Uzi—and that’s when she realized she was in trouble. This wasn’t some random kidnapping, it was done for a purpose. Retribution, for her role in a recent case involving Uzi and al-Humat’s sleeper operative.
Her legs went weak and she had to lock her knees to remain erect. To maintain the appearance of resistance.
The footsteps again snatched her attention; as she looked up, the light went out.
Another match was lit. Her face was pushed against the stump again, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a new set of black boots appear at her feet.
Someone pulled her head back. She saw a hooded face with bloodshot eyes. And a long, curved, lethally sharp talwar in his hand.
She didn’t know what he yelled, but the tone was forceful and primal. If she ever feared for her life without hope of escape, it was now.
Jonathan, oh my God, my son—
Robby! Where are you when I need you—
Her head was forced against the mildewed stump. A hand clamped against her skull, and then…
Blackness.
20
Hector DeSantos checked his watch one more time, then lifted his coffee cup and took a drink.
He dialed Vail, but it went straight to voice mail. Again. Something was not right.
In the States, he would have assets at his disposal to locate her based on her BlackBerry’s GPS signal. Hell, he could call people who knew her and ask if they’d heard anything. Here he was running blind. Actually, he wasn’t running anywhere. He was stuck waiting in the café in case she showed up, a scowl on her face complaining that she didn’t have mobile service in the tube and the train had broken down and it was hot and—
Any number of scenarios could explain why she was late. But it was now approaching an hour past her expected arrival, and there weren’t many things that could be responsible for detaining her that way without contact of some sort.
If she had been delayed, or if something had come up regarding her case, she would have texted him. His cell phone number was now in her call log.
But his attempts at contacting her went directly to voice mail. Her BlackBerry was likely turned off.
He had drained the third cappuccino when his Nokia rang. “Karen?”
He closed his eyes as soon as he heard the voice at the other end of the line. It was not Vail.
“Yes. This is Cruz.” He listened a moment, then said, “Yeah. I got it…No, I know where it is…Fine.”
He slammed the phone down, eliciting looks of dissatisfaction from the other patrons tapping on their laptops and iPads. He rose from his chair and began pacing, his heart rate fast and forceful.
Seconds later, the phone rang again, and he stared at it a long second before grabbing it up.
“Cruz.”
He turned toward the window, his eyes scanning Piccadilly, looking for someone watching him.
“No, I heard you. I’m on my way.”
DESANTOS MET THE MAN at the M&M’s World Store in Leicester Square. It was not a typical low-key location for a meet between two covert agents. But that’s what made it safe: no one would expect such a rendezvous to take place here.
The building that housed the store was a block square, an all-glass contemporary design with bright lights spewing purples, pinks, yellows, greens, blues—almost the entire rainbow was represented.
DeSantos walked in the entrance, at the curved corner of the building, and was greeted by two man-size M&M mock-ups. The interior did not disappoint. It consumed multiple levels, a red staircase spiraling to the lower levels, where he saw four large M&Ms striding in a crosswalk against a facsimile backdrop of what appeared to be the Beatles’ Abbey Road cover.
Any other day, DeSantos would’ve at least smiled at the sight of the diorama. But right now he wanted answers.
He walked to the back room where M&M teddy bears were stacked on racks wearing clothing bearing the classic candy’s colors. DeSantos picked up a red-shirted teddy bear—his signal for the contact to approach.
“Where is she?” DeSantos asked in a low, measured tone.
From the adjacent rack, the man said, “You should know that you are responsible.”
DeSantos fought the urge to turn and get in the man’s face. Wrap his fingers around his throat. “What’s that supposed to mean? I told you I’d take care of her. You should’ve trusted me.”
“You didn’t, she was out of your control and was headed into very dangerous territory. Now, I’m afraid, there have been consequences that you will have to deal with.”
“Where is she?”
“I am not responsible for the state she is in.”
“Where is she?” DeSantos repeated, louder than he intended. But at this point he did not care.
The man gave him the location, and DeSantos left the store on the run, the red M&M bear flying from his hands, landing harmlessly on the floor.
21
DeSantos arrived in Oxford ninety minutes later. His phone’s GPS took him to the address he had been given, and despite the darkness that had settled over the town—which was always bleak, even on bright days—he recognized parts of it from a prior trip here years ago.
He knew the general area: one of England’s most visited and historically important churches, the University Church of Saint Mary the Virgin, erected in the thirteenth century—and looking every bit its age. The exterior was in desperate need of retrofitting and refurbishment.
DeSantos drove down Catte Street and took it to the end, then parked his Peugeot—illegally—and took to the pavement with an old-fashioned incandescent Maglite that was woefully underpowered.
A few university students walked briskly past, probably en route to their dorm rooms, an evening party, or the library to study.
DeSantos started in Radcliffe Square and moved slowly around the several centuries-old circular Radcliffe Camera building, checking the crevices, alcoves, and doorways.
But there was nothing.
He returned to his car and then backed out of Catte Street, about to pull out his phone and ask what the hell was going on—when something caught his eye. He grabbed his flashlight and jumped out of the vehicle.
Beneath the archway of the Bridge of Sighs—an ornate covered connector ramp between two buildings—DeSantos saw three young men gathered in the darkness. Two items protruded from beneath the youths—women’s black boots. He knew those shoes.
As he stepped onto the cobblestone gutter that paralleled the curb, he brought his Maglite up and splashed it across the backs of the men. They turned—and DeSantos’s forearms tensed. These were not youths—certainly not the innocent type out for a night on the town. These were troublemakers: hooligans, in the local vernacular.
“Get that light the fuck out of my face,” the older one said, a roughness to his skin and a squint in his eyes.
“What do you got there?” DeSantos asked.
“None of your business. Do yourself a favor and move on.”
If he had his Desert Eagle, he would have pulled it by now. Its impressive mass would’ve been enough to give these shitheads a case of urinary release.
The hoodlums shifted position—as they prepared to do battle. In that moment DeSantos realized that he had been wrong. There were four of them, and they were larger, and not nearly as young as he had estimated at first glance.
Behind him, his car idled. The street was otherwise empty.
“Move away from her,” he said.
The leader stepped forward. “Yeah? I think you need to do some arithmetic. There be four of us and only one ’a you.”
DeSantos detected a Northern Ireland twang in his accent. These men were hardened veterans, likely brought up during the brutal and bloody conflict.
As if on cue, he flicked his right wrist and unfurled a long-bladed knife. Its bright chrome glinted in the yellow beam of DeSantos’s Maglite. It looked clean and sharp.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” DeSantos asked, taking a step forward, followed by another. First rules of close quarter combat: take an attack mode—a fuck you stance. Show no fear. Control the situation. “I’m not gonna tell you again. Move away from her. Now.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll kill you.” He said it with a cool casualness that lent credibility to his claim—no hyperbole; a statement of fact. He continued to advance on them; the thug’s comrades shuffled position in response. “That woman means a lot to me. You’re gonna have to go through me to get to her. And trust me. You don’t want to have to go through me.”
DeSantos had stepped within three feet of the man and had started moving laterally, his body squared up and his right hand extended, pointing at him.
The thug jabbed the knife toward DeSantos—who deflected it with a sweeping downward motion of his hand against the man’s elbow, locking it and driving it backward, breaking it with a satisfying snap while simultaneously jabbing the edge of his right hand into his throat.
The man stiffened, and DeSantos yanked down on his attacker’s left wrist, the pain from the fractured joint forcing the knife to drop from his hand. DeSantos snatched it up, swung it around, and sliced at the guy’s abdomen, opening the flesh and releasing a line of bright red blood. He slammed the point of his elbow into the man’s chest and he went down hard, back first, to the pavement.
DeSantos brought the knife up and prepared to take on the next banger. With two swift, continuous movements of his hands, he slit his adversary’s bicep, then brought the blade down across his stomach and finished him with a quick stab into his groin. He dropped to the ground in writhing pain.
“C’mon,” DeSantos yelled, facing the third criminal. “Let’s go, asshole!”
The other two took a step back, eyes locked with DeSantos’s.
“Last chance. Come at me or get the hell out of here. Three. Two. One—”
They brought their hands up and backed away, revealing his unconscious colleague, a rag stuffed in her mouth.
“Karen!”
He tossed the gag aside and moved the damp, matted hair off her face. He stroked her cheek gently, then checked her pulse: fast and thready.
He hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her to his car.
Goddamn it. He told them he would deal with her. Son of a bitch.
22
DeSantos stood in the treatment room next to the examination table where Vail was lying supine. He had burst into the quick care facility with her in his arms, telling the staff she had been attacked by street thugs.
“Do we need to do a rape kit?” the doctor asked.
“No, I got there in time. But it looks to me like she was given some kind of sedative.”
