Outlaw, page 21
Granted approval, Lucy trailed after Grace across the cavernous lobby of the Marine Luxe hotel, her shoes clacking off the white marble floor as her dress swished around her bare legs. The ground floor of the entire complex had been turned over to the race night party, and it heaved with the rich and the well-heeled. Men and women in blisteringly fashionable outfits tried to outdo each other in volume and performative enjoyment, the owners of the race teams and their entourages orbiting huge ice sculptures and vodka luges carved to resemble sleek speedboats or ocean waves. There were drivers in among them, too, the racers being shown off like prize gladiators before taking their turn in the arena.
Grace strode through the gathering, catwalk-confident and unstoppable. She was so much Sunny Wehmeyer’s doppelgänger that it was eerie, and Lucy couldn’t help but be a little creeped out at the woman’s ability to inhabit someone else’s skin. Grace smiled and exchanged pleasantries with people as she passed, acting as if she knew every one of them intimately.
‘She’s a witch, I swear,’ Lucy muttered, subvocalising the comment so it could be picked up by the throat mike hidden in the choker she wore.
‘Come again?’ Marc’s voice crackled through the radio bead in her earrings.
‘Just thinking out loud, is all,’ she replied.
‘Do you have eyes on the objective?’ Kara Wei broke in over the channel.
‘Not yet.’ She helped herself to a peach Bellini from a passing server and kept on Grace’s six as they skirted around the dance floor and wandered out to the moonlit patio. ‘Stand by.’
Grace turned to her, beaming from ear to ear.
‘So far, so good, mate.’ She even had the accent down to a T. With the haircut and the make-up and the jewellery, Lucy had to wonder if Sunny’s own father would have been able to tell the difference. ‘C’mon, cheer up. This’ll be a walk in the park, no worries.’ She nodded towards a more secluded area, off by the outdoor pool. ‘Our bloke must be over yonder. Let’s go take a look-see . . .’
But a cluster of other partygoers were approaching them, blocking their path, and at the head of the group stood the handsome Brazilian guy Lucy had seen on Wehmeyer’s yacht the day before.
‘Hector,’ said Grace, with a boozy wink. ‘Having fun?’
Lucy held her breath. If Grace’s performance didn’t pass muster with the members of Sunny’s entourage, this whole operation would be blown.
Hector eyed her. ‘Did you see the stylist today? You look different.’
‘New haircut. You like?’ Grace flipped her darkened tresses, but she didn’t wait for Hector to reply and her tone turned acid. ‘’Course, I don’t give a toss if you don’t. I’m doing my own thing.’ She shot Lucy a look. ‘Ain’t that right, Lana?’
‘Lana’ was Lucy’s current cover identity. She nodded, covering her silence with a sip from her glass.
‘We didn’t think you’d be along,’ Hector pressed. ‘Yesterday, you said—’
‘What?’ Grace cut him off with a sniff. ‘You reckon I need to hang with you lot all the time to have some fun?’ She gave a high-pitched giggle. ‘Bugger off and do what you like. You were harshing my mood anyway.’
Hector blinked, and like an obedient courtier, he knew to back down when his queen was of a spiteful disposition.
‘Sure, okay.’ He tried to laugh it off. ‘It’s just that . . . Well, you remember Richie, the crew chief?’
‘I know who the fuck Richie is.’ Grace glared at him, as if insulted by the implication that she didn’t.
Hector coloured, and Lucy couldn’t help but notice how the other members of Sunny’s little circle were drifting away from the conversation, physically distancing themselves so that they didn’t take any of the flak. As the new arrival, Lucy was side-eyed by the group with poorly masked disdain, and for a moment she felt as if she was back in high school, being judged by the girls in the cool clique.
‘Well . . . uh . . . Richie is very upset,’ continued Hector. ‘He said that Shayla just upped and left. He can’t find her anywhere.’
She’s halfway to the Maldives with the real Sunny Wehmeyer, thought Lucy.
‘I fired her,’ snapped Grace, and Hector’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘She wasn’t putting her foot down in the qualifiers. Why d’you think we’re losing? I threw her out. Lana’s gonna replace her.’
Lucy took her cue and gave a nod. ‘Looking forward to it.’
‘You can’t fire the driver the day before a race!’ Hector’s hand went to his mouth. ‘Oh my God, Richie is going to be so pissed!’
Grace prodded Hector in the chest. ‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, I’m the team manager! And Richie can eat a dick for all I care! Shayla’s out, Lana’s in. Deal with it.’ She waved him away. ‘And didn’t I tell you to bugger off?’
Hector threw up his hands and walked away, regrouping with the rest of the entourage as they eagerly devoured this latest nugget of drama.
‘What the hell was that?’ Lucy said quietly.
‘Social engineering,’ Grace replied. ‘I give Handsome Hector a roasting, he’s not gonna be in a hurry to talk to me again any time soon. Sunny’s little gang will keep their distance, so there’s less chance one of them will catch me out, get it?’
‘Risky play.’
Grace led her towards the secluded area. ‘You let me work, sis. I know what I’m doin’ . . .’
‘I hope so.’
Among the partygoers, Lucy caught sight of Giovanni Da Silvio for the first time, the Italian lounging in an artfully rumpled cotton jacket as he puffed on a cigar and grinned.
Off to one side, his assistant stood patient and still, holding the digital book in her long-fingered hands.
‘Objective sighted,’ whispered Lucy.
*
They returned to Daichi’s apartment at the edge of the Rossau district, and it wasn’t until they were inside that Rumiko let go of her stoic silence and started to cry.
Daichi opened the shuttered windows to let in the light, and made tea. They sat on the worn leather sofa in the lounge and he held her as she sobbed it out. Rumiko buried her face in Daichi’s chest, unable to bring herself to look him in the eye as she wailed about the secrets she had kept.
He didn’t let on how much of it he was already aware of. He knew exactly what to say to soften the moment for her. Daichi took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up, tenderly kissed the tears from her cheeks and promised her that he would always forgive her.
‘Nothing you can say or do will break the bond we have,’ he told her.
So she told him everything. Her real surname. The shame of her father’s legacy. The circumstances that had brought her here, and the generous scholarship grant that had allowed her to study abroad. Her second chance at a new life.
He listened, keeping his expression neutral. It was vital for Rumiko not to believe he was judging her for any of this. Now and then he made small sounds or gestures to encourage her to continue.
Between sips of the tea, she finally came to the conversation with the foreigner at the cafe. This Solomon, with his tale about Rumiko’s criminal father and terrifying allusions about the danger surrounding her.
‘That man must be a confidence trickster,’ Daichi told Rumiko, stating it like a fact. ‘Dear heart, somehow this person found out about your private life and now he’s trying to prey on you. This is how they work! They put pressure on you! They don’t give you time to think straight! Then before you know it, you’re giving them everything you own!’
‘But I don’t have any money!’ said Rumiko. ‘I’m not rich!’ She swallowed hard.
‘No,’ Daichi dismissed that possibility with an offhand gesture. ‘It is something else . . . Perhaps information about your father?’
His thoughts raced. What if Rumiko’s parent had left behind something valuable in Osaka – something that only his daughter might know about?
‘I should go to the police,’ Rumiko said, with a firm nod. ‘Yes. They’ll know what to do.’
Daichi gave her a wary glance. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? If we were in Japan, I would agree, but here? Don’t forget we’re in a foreign country, Rumiko. Can we really trust them? What if the police are in league with this Solomon person?’
Colour drained from her face. ‘Oh no.’
He straightened, and looked her in the eye. ‘I will help you. I have a friend who works at the Japanese embassy over on Hessgasse. I can talk to him.’
‘We should go there, now . . .’
‘You are in no state to do that.’ Daichi shook his head. ‘It’s better if we stay here. Safer.’
She quietened. ‘I suppose you are right.’
‘You know I am.’ Daichi took both her hands in his. ‘You’re a mess, you poor thing. Why don’t you take a shower, and I will call my friend? We’ll stay in tonight, I’ll make dinner. It will be okay. Do you trust me?’
‘I . . . I do,’ she said, after a moment. He drew her into another embrace, and then let go. Rumiko stood and managed a shaky smile. ‘Sometimes I wonder what I would do without you, Daichi.’
‘I’m here to keep you safe,’ he told her, and he made a show of checking the locks on his door. ‘Always remember that.’
Daichi sat on the sofa and waited until he heard the sound of the water running. Rumiko liked to take a long time in the shower – he’d timed it – so he knew he would be free of her for at least fifteen minutes.
He ran through everything she’d told him, putting it in order, weighing up the possibilities of this new situation. It was a lot to process.
Her tote bag lay on the floor where she had dropped it as they entered, the contents half out on the threadbare tatami mat in the middle of the room. He stuffed the books and notes back inside, and through force of habit, opened up Rumiko’s purse and looked through it, finding nothing of interest.
He dropped it back in the tote and beneath some papers he found a black smartphone, a slick new model he didn’t recognise, with an anodised case and matte glass touchscreen. Daichi frowned. Rumiko hadn’t said anything to him about upgrading her phone, but that was like her; she overlooked such details. He gave the device an experimental tap, but nothing happened. Perhaps it was out of power? He constantly had to remind her to recharge her devices.
Putting the bag aside, Daichi sought out his phone. Not the one he carried for everyday use, but the cheap, disposable burner he kept hidden in the bottom of a stubby vase. He flicked it on, straining to listen. The shower was still on full blast, and he could hear Rumiko humming tunelessly.
He dialled the only number listed in the burner’s memory and waited for the line to connect. Daichi wasn’t calling the Japanese embassy. What he had said about his ‘friend’ was a quick lie that got him the reaction he needed, like almost everything that came out of his mouth.
Daichi stared at the burner and his knee began to twitch, his leg juddering as the nervousness he’d been hiding finally surfaced. Without Rumiko around to see it, he let his mask slip, let the panic show through.
This is it, he thought. This man Solomon. He’s what they warned me about.
*
‘He’s making a call,’ said Benjamin, his low tones echoing in the back of the van. The big man was hunched over a digital tablet, his thick fingers hunting and pecking at the virtual keyboard. ‘The number appears to be connected to an automated answering service.’
‘Intercept it.’ Solomon leaned over and indicated an option on the screen.
‘Will that work?’ Benjamin tapped the button, frowning. ‘This isn’t my area of expertise.’
Solomon nodded, shifting so he could see out through the van’s windscreen and up to the apartments across the street.
‘It should. Before his passing, I had Mr Kader set up several automated programs for field use. Plug and play, he called them.’
As Rumiko walked away from him at the cafe, Solomon had used sleight of hand to activate his spyPhone and slip it into her bag. The handset acted as a remote listening device, frequency monitor – and now as a jammer.
‘Is it working?’
In the front seat of the vehicle, Delancort had another tablet computer open on his lap, half concealed by the folds of his coat. He looked uncomfortable in the deliberately untidy outfit, and fidgeted constantly.
Benjamin nodded. ‘I believe so.’
‘Where is Dane when we need him?’ muttered Delancort.
An indicator turned green on Benjamin’s display, and up in the apartment, an interception subroutine convinced Daichi’s burner phone that it was connected to its destination number, when in fact its signal was being diverted down to the parked van.
‘Hello? It’s me,’ said a man’s voice, in heavily accented English. ‘Daichi Ito. We have a problem. You told me to call this number if anyone ever came looking for the woman.’
‘Is that the boyfriend?’ said Delancort.
Solomon nodded. The three of them listened in silence as Daichi gave them a description of the African and a quick account of his conversation with Rumiko.
Daichi was worried. ‘Look, I know we had an agreement, but I don’t want to be part of anything that puts me in danger. You’re not paying me enough for that. I’ve been doing this for nearly a year and I think that’s long enough. Maybe we should wrap this up?’ He sounded as if he was psyching himself up to make a decision. ‘Yes. I think that’s best. Let’s talk exit strategy, right? I’m so tired of listening to her whine about her boring life. I . . .’ He paused. ‘I don’t really like her.’ Daichi sighed. ‘Just call me back straight away. We need to talk about this!’ The line went dead.
‘What a charming young man,’ Delancort said coldly. ‘This is he?’
He held up his tablet to show the others, and on it was a spread of photos from Rumiko’s social media page. Most of the snapshots showed her with Daichi out and about at restaurants or local sights in the city. Solomon nodded again, and Delancort gave a sniff.
‘It is not my intention to be impolite, but he does appear a little too handsome to be dating a woman of her, shall we say, conventional looks.’
‘It’s a trick,’ said Benjamin, echoing the words that Daichi had used earlier. ‘I have seen this sort of thing before. A good-looking man or woman targets someone less attractive, sweeps them off their feet, and makes them feel special.’ He shook his head. ‘I imagine he used their common background to his advantage.’
‘The honeytrap,’ agreed Solomon. ‘A ploy as old as civilisation itself.’
‘He has an uncommonly small social media footprint for someone of his age,’ said Delancort, following links from Rumiko’s page. ‘Daichi Ito, twenty-three, from Toyko, Japan,’ he read aloud, ‘studying professional-level fencing at a school here in Vienna. And of course, he wears a mask in all the pictures of him in action. Convenient.’ He glanced at the apartment, then back at Solomon. ‘I know a cover legend when I see one, sir. Too clean to be true.’
‘Forward the information to Kara,’ said Solomon. ‘But we cannot afford to wait for her to get back to us. We must act now.’
Benjamin frowned and put down his tablet. ‘I’m not comfortable with the prospect of a forced extraction.’
He nodded at a black zip-case on the seat. Inside it was an injector gun with a powerful phenobarbital load, enough to drop an average person in under twenty seconds, and certainly enough to knock out the slight Rumiko for several hours. But drugs could have unpredictable effects, and a mistake in the dosage or an unknown complication could prove fatal to the woman they were here to rescue.
‘We must be realistic,’ noted Solomon. ‘The Combine will be monitoring Rumiko, but only as a secondary concern. This man Ito, he is clearly working for them. Most likely, he is an opportunist criminal they recruited to watch her. We have a small window in which to recover Saito’s daughter before the Combine become aware of our presence here. If that happens . . .’ He trailed off.
They knew the consequences. If Saito believed Rumiko was in danger, he would sacrifice their deal, and that would mean the deaths of their colleagues back in Sochi.
Benjamin cleared his throat. ‘I have a suggestion.’
*
Staying in the basement’s shadows, Marc rolled the kitchen staff smock into a tight tube and pressed it down into his backpack. The disguise had got him into the hotel grounds, and now the all-black outfit he wore beneath was revealed. He secured his gloves and pulled a lightweight mask over his mouth and nose, completing the stealthy ensemble.
He picked his way past the same circuitry cabinet they had hot-wired during the failed attempt on the penthouse a few nights ago. The metal box was discoloured and the reek of burned plastic still lingered in the air from where Malte’s spyPhone had self-destructed. The Sochi police had dusted for prints and sealed off the unit, but Marc gave it a wide berth all the same.
He made his way to a service hatch in the wall and negated the alarm circuit before snapping open the latches. The smell of heavy grease and hot metal wafted out.
‘Active is on site,’ he whispered, his voice hissing over the secured communications net. ‘Going in.’
Marc climbed in through the hatch and pulled it closed behind him. The main lift shaft for the Marine Luxe extended away over his head, the grimy darkness lit by razors of light from the edges of the elevator doors on each floor. As he watched, the closest of the lift cars came down to ground level, halting within arm’s reach. He heard the muffled sounds of conversation inside, before the car set off again, rising back into the gloom.
‘Mobile in position.’
That was Malte, signalling that the 4 × 4 was waiting outside, in the event that a fast getaway was required. It was a sensible precaution, given the outcome of their last try at this.
‘Operations here, I’m on station.’ Kara was out on the water again, this time handling things alone. The rigid inflatable boat floated out of sight around the end of the wharf, where the hacker could work unseen. ‘I want to remind everyone that my access has been severely curtailed since last time.’ She couldn’t keep a note of annoyance out of her voice. ‘I no longer have access to the hotel’s internal security network. They patched the loophole we used before.’
