The parking lot was deserted, the city asleep around him. No witnesses. No one around.

  Popping his collar, the small man put his head down and moved off into the shadows. Four minutes later, the wire and gloves gone, the man was in a taxi heading straight for Dulles International Airport and his 5:05 am direct flight to London Heathrow.

  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.

 

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